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The  I 
shall 
TINL 
whic 

Mapi 
diffe 
entir 
begii 
right 
requ 
mett 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

aix 

30X 

v/ 

12X 


IIX 


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28X 


32X 


re 

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es 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


errata 
1  to 


B  pelure, 
on  d 


n 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

f 


^^Mimm:^: 


"Un 


D. 


A  COMMONPLACE  BOOK 


Of 


®&o«S&ts,  Umartw,  aitlr  gmties, 


OBIOmAL  AND  SELECTED. 


.I'K 


PABT    L— STHIOS    AND    OHARAOTEB. 
PABX  n. — LITEBATUBB    AND     ABT.  v 


BT 


MRS.   JAMESON, 


"  Un  pea  de  chaque  chofle,  et  rien  du  tout,-i  la  (^{aiee !  "-Montaioke. 


D. 


NEW  YORK : 

APPLETON    &    COMPANY, 
846    A   848    BROADWAY. 
1855. 


4513 


"?».'. 


or7  ? 


(^  /)/? 


/ 


^^ 


-^isf- 


i^ 


is. 


••■.«,  *     *». 


513 


i'.    i. 


PREFACE. 


-♦-•-♦- 


I  MUST  be  allowed  to  say  a  few  words  in  explanation 
of  the  contents  of  this  little  volume,  which  is  truly 
what  its  name  sets  forth — a  book  of  commonplaces, 
and  nothing  more.  If  I  have  never,  in  any  work  I 
have  ventured  to  place  before  the  public,  aspired  to 
teachf  (being  myself  a  learner  in  all  things,)  at  least 
I  have  hitherto  done  my  best  to  deserve  the  indul- 
gence I  have  met  with ;  and  it  would  pain  me  if  it 
could  be  supposed  that  such  indulgence  had  rendered 
me  presumptuous  or  careless. 


/  For  many  years  I  have  been  accustomed  to  make* 
a  memorandum  of  any  thought  which  might  come 
across  me — (if  pen  and  paper  were  at  hand),  and  to 
mark  (and  remark)  any  passage  in  a  book  which  ex- 
cited either  a  sympathetic  or  an  antagonistic  feeling. 
This  collection  of  notes  accumulated  insensibly  from 
day  to  day.     The  volumes  on  Shakspeare's  Women, 


'    I 


FREFAOB. 


M 


on  Saored  and  Legendary  Art,  and  various  other 
prpdaotions,  sprung  from  seed  thus  lightly  and  casu- 
ally sown,  which,  I  hardly  know  how,  grew  up  and 
expanded  into  a  regular,  readable  form,  with  a  be- 
ginning, a  middle,  and  an  end.  But  what  was  to  be 
done  with  the  fragments  which  remained — ^without 
beginning,  and  without  end — links  of  a  hidden  or  a 
broken  chain  ?  Whether  to  preserve  them  or  destroy 
them  became  a  question,  and  one  I  could  not  answer 
for  myself.  In  allowing  a  portion  of  them  to  go 
forth  to  the  world  in  their  original  form,  as  uncon- 
neoted  fragments,  I  have  been  guided  by  the  wishes 
of  others,  who  deemed  it  not  wholly  uninteresting  or 
profitless  to  trace  the  path,  sometimes  devious  enough, 
of  an  "  inquiring  spirit,''  even  by  the  little  pebbles 
dropped  as  vestiges  by  the  way  side. 

A  book  so  supremely  egotistical  and  subjective 
can  do  good  only  in  one  way.  It  may,  like  conversa- 
tion with  a  friend,  open  up  sources  of  sympathy  and 
reflection ;  excite  to  argument,  agreement,  or  disagree- 
ment; and,  like  every  spontaneous  utterance  of 
thought  out  of  an  earnest  mind,  suggest  far  higher 
and  better  thoughts  than  any  to  be  found  here,  to 
higher  and  more  productive  minds.  If  I  had  not  the 
humble  hope  of  such  a  possible  result,  instead  of 


^  , 


PREFAOB.  H 

sending  these  memoranda  to  tlie  printer,  I  should 
have  thrown  them  into  the  fire ;  for  I  lack  that  crea* 
tive  facility  which  can  work  up  the  teachings  of  heart- 
sorrow  and  world-experience  into  attractive  forms  of 
fiction  or  of  art ;  and  haying  no  intention  of  leaving 
any  such  memorials  to  be  published  after  my  death, 
they  must  have  gone  into  the  fire  as  the  only  alter- 
native left.  -     v..  J    ai^:j 

., .  The  passages  from  books  are  not,  strictly  speak- 
ing, selected ;  they  are  not  given  here  on  any  prin- 
ciple of  choice,  but  simply  because  that  by  some  pro- 
cess of  assimilation  they  became  a  part  of  the  indi- 
vidual mind.  They  "  found  we,"  —  to  borrow 
Coleridge's  expression, — "  found  me  in  some  depth 
ofmybeiLg;"  I  did  not  "find  ^A«w."        . 


For  the  rest,  all  those  passages  which  are  marked 
by  inverted  commas  must  be  regarded  as  borrowed, 
though  I  have  not  always  been  able  to  give  my  au- 
thority. All  passages  not  so  marked  are,  I  dare  not 
say,  original  or  new,  but  at  least  the  unstudied  ex- 
pression of  a  free  discursive  mind.  Fruits,  not 
advisedly  plucked,  but  which  the  variable  winds  have 
shaken  from  the  tree ;  some  ripe,  some  "  harsh  and 
crude." 


PREFACB. 


1 1 


Wordsworth's  famous  poem  of  "  The  Happy 
Warrior  '*  (of  which  a  new  application  will  he  found 
at  page  87),  is  supposed  by  Mr.  De  Quinoey  to  have 
been  first  suggested  by  the  character  of  Nelson.  It 
has  since  been  applied  to  Sir  Oharles  Napier  (the 
Indian  General),  as  well  as  to  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton ;  all  which  serves  to  illustrate  my  position,  that 
the  lines  in  question  are  equally  applicable  to  any 
man  or  any  woman  whose  moral  standard  is  irrespec- 
tive of  selfishness  and  expediency. 

With  regard  to  the  fragment  on  Sculpture,  it  may 
be  necessary  to  state  that  it  was  written  in  1848. 
The  first  three  paragraphs  were  inserted  in  the  Art 
Journal  for  April,  1849.  It  was  intended  to  enlarge 
the  whole  into  a  comprehensive  essay  on  "  Subjects 
fitted  for  Artistic  Treatment ;  "  but  this  being  now 
impossible,  the  fragment  is  given  as  originally  writ- 
ten ;  others  may  think  it  out,  and  apply  it  better  than 
I  shall  live  to  do. 

September,  1864* 


^•'■7''  i^ 


-■(.,' 


vv 


/; 


■ ':•,!, )- 


■'•.  >■; 


CONTENTS 


-*•-•- 


PART  I. 


ETHICS   AND   CHARACTER. 


PAOB 


\\ 


Ethioal  Fraoiobmtb.           -    ^ 

Vanity,        .... 

.       18 

Truths  and  Tnusms, 

14 

Beanty  and  Use, 

14 

What  is  Soul?   .            . 

18 

The  Philosophy  of  Happiness, 

19 

Cheerfulness  a  Virtue,  . 

81 

Intellect  and  Sympathy,     . 

21 

it    Old  Letters,      .... 

88 

The  Point  of  Honour, 

28 

Looking  up,       .... 

88 

'-.     Authors,      .... 

24 

Thought  and  Theory,    . 

24 

Impulse  and  Consideration, 

»    m 

4      Principle  and  Expediency, 

96 

4»,      Personality  of  the  Evil  Principle,  . 

.       U 

/.      The  Catholic  Spirit,      . 

28 

>-.-     Death-beds,             .           .           . 

28 

Thoughts  on  a  Sermon, 

29 

1                                               00NTXMT8. 

11 

PAQB 

Love  and  Fear  of  Ood, 

80 

SoeUl  Opinion,             •           •           • 

81 

Balzao,        .           .           .           .           . 

81 

PoUtiool 

81 

Celibacy,     .           .           .           .           . 

82 

Lander's  Wise  Sayings, 

88 

Justice  and  Generosity,      .           .           . 

86 

Roman  Catholic  Converts, 

86 

Stealing  and  Borrowing,    . 

86 

Good  and  Bad,  .... 

86 

Italian  Proverb.    Greek  Saying,    . 

86 

Silent  Grief,      .... 

87 

Past  and  Future,     .           .           .           . 

87 

Suicide.    Countenance, 

88 

Progress  and  Progression,  .           .           , 

89 

'     Happiness  in  Suffering, 

40 

Life  in  the  Future,             .           .           . 

41 

Strength.    Youth,        .           .           . 

42 

Moral  Suffering,      .            . 

48 

The  Secret  of  Peace,     . 

44 

Motives  and  Impulses,        .           . 

46 

Principle  and  Passion, 

46 

Dominant  Ideas,     . 

46 

Absence  and  Death, 

47 

Sydney  Smith.    Theodore  Hook,   . 

48 

Werther  and  Childe  Harold, 

01 

Money  Obligations,                        • 

.        68 

Charity,            .... 

M 

Truth,         .... 

66 

Women.    Men, 

56 

Compensation  for  Sorrow,  . 

66 

Religion.    Avarice, 

57 

%f     Genius,       .... 

;        67 

FAOa 

80 
81 
81 
81 
82 
88 
86 
86 
86 
86 
86 
87 
87 
88 
89 
40 
41 
42 
48 
44 
46 
46 
46 
47 
48 
61 
68 
64 
66 
65 
66 
67 
67 


00NTXNT8. 

V 

PA«a 

Mind, 

t                  •                  • 

68 

Hieroglyphioal  Colours, 

• 

68 

Character, 

•                   •                  « 

69 

Value  of  Wordi,      . 

•                  • 

60 

Kature  and  Art, 

•                   •                  « 

61 

Spirit  and  Form, 

t                  « 

64 

Penal  Retribution, 

•                   •                   • 

64 

The  Church, 

•                   • 

66 

Woman's  Patriotism,     . 

•                   •                   • 

66 

Doubt, 

•                   • 

66 

Curiosity, 

•                   •                   • 

9ft 

Tieck.    Coleridge,  . 

•                   • 

6t 

Application  of  a  Bon  Mot  of ' 

Falleyrand, 

66 

1 1     Adverse  Individualities, 

•                       • 

69 

Conflict  in  Love, 

■                       •                       • 

10 

French  Expressions, 

•                       • 

.       71 

Practical  and  Contemplative 

Life, 

76 

Joanna  Baillie.    Macaulay's 

Ballads, 

78 

g.|  Cunning, 

•                      •                       I 

74 

Browning's  Paracelsus, 

•                       • 

74 

Men,  Women,  and  Children, 

•                       • 

W 

Letters, 

•                       • 

91 

Madame  de  Stael, 

•                       • 

U^ 

Dej4, 

•                       • 

98 

Thought  too  free, 

• 

94 

Good  Qualities,  not  Virtues, 

•                       t 

.    k 

Sense  and  Fantasy, 

•                       • 

96 

^  Use  the  Present,     . 

•                       • 

96 

,  .  Facts,    . 

•                       • 

# 

^  WiseSaymgs, 
^.  Pestilence  of  Falsehood, 
^  Signs  instead  of  Words, 

•                       •        • 

98 

•                       • 

99 

■                       • 

.      100 

10 


CONTENTS. 


Relations  with  the  World, 

Milton  s  Adam  and  Eve,     . 

Thoughts,  sundry, 
A  Revelation  of  Childhood,    . 
The  Indian  Hunter  and  the  Fibe  ;  an  Allegory, 
PosnoAL  Fbagmkntb,  .... 


FAGS 

101 
102 
103 
104 
132 
135 


fRltttlas^itnl, 


The  Hermit  and  the  Minstrel, 

139 

Pandemonium,        .... 

.       142 

Southey  on  the  Religious  Orders, 

145 

-    Forms  in  Religion— Image  Worship, 

.       146 

Religious  Differences,    . 

148 

Expansive  Christianity, 

.       151 

Notes  from  various  Sermons  :— 

A  Roman  Catholic  Sermon, 

154 

Another,      ..... 

.      157 

Church  of  England  Sermon,     . 

169 

Another,      ..... 

.       162 

Dissenting  Sermon, 

167 

Father  Taylor  of  Boston, 

.       168 

PART   II. 


LITERATURE   AND   ART. 


Notes  from  Books  :— 
Dr.  Arfiold, 
Niebuhr, 
Lord  Bacon, 


176 
197 
206 


rAOB 

101 

102 
103 
104 
132 
185 


189 
142 
146 
146 
148 
161 

164 
157 
169 
162 
167 
168 


176 
197 
206 


CONTENTS. 

m 

m 

rAoa 

Chateaubriand, 

81S 

Bishop  Cumberland, 

.      221 

Comte's  Philosophy, 

224 

'       Goethe,       ..... 

284 

.       HazUtt's  "Liber  Amoris," 

.MA 

Francis  Horner,  "The  Nightingale," 

289 

Thackeray's  "  English  Humourists,"    . 

9M 

Notes  on  Akt  : — 

Analogies,    ..... 

248 

Definition  of  Art, 

aso 

No  Patriotic  Art,    .... 

261 

Verse  and  Colour, 

861 

Dutch  Pictures,      .... 

252 

Morals  in  Art,   .... 

263 

Physiognomy  of  Hands, 

.      268 

Mozart  and  Chopin, 

259 

Music,          ..... 

.    dea 

Rachel,  the  Actress, 

268 

English  and  German  Actresses, 

266 

Character  of  Imogen,    . 

271 

Shakspeare  Club,    . 

.      272 

"  Maria  Maddalena,"     . 

278 

The  Artistic  Nature, 

.      274 

Woman's  Criticism, 

276 

Artistic  Influences, 

m 

The  Greek  Aphrodite,  . 

278 

Love,  in  the  Greek  Tragedy, 

.      278 

Wilkie's  Life  and  Letters, 

279 

Wilhehn  Schadow, 

288 

Artist  Life,        .... 

286 

Materialism  in  Art, 

.      288 

12 


CONTENTS. 


FAOB 


A  Fragment  on  Sculpture,  and  on  certain  Charac- 

tera  in  History  and  Poetry,  considered  as  Sub- 

jects for  Modern  Art, 

290 

Helen  of  Troy,           .... 

295 

Penelope — Laodamia, 

299 

Hippolytus,    ..... 

302 

Iphigenia,             .... 

806 

Eve,    ...... 

809 

Adam,       ..... 

811 

Angels,           ..... 

812 

Miriam — Ruth,    .... 

815 

Christ — Solomon — ^David,     . 

816 

Hagar — Rebecca — ^Rachel — Queen  of  Sheba, 

316 

Lady  Godiva,            .... 

817 

Joan  of  Arc, 

319 

Characters  from  Shakspeare, 

828 

Characters  from  Spenser, 

824 

From  Milton.     The  Lady — Comm — Satan,  . 

825 

From  the  Italian  and  Modern  Poets, 

328 

I 


PAOB 


290 

295 

299 

302 

806 

809 

811 

812 

816 

816 

816 

817 

819 

823 

824 

825 

328 


PAKT   I. 

ETHICS  AND   CHARACTER. 


-^•-♦- 


Bacon  says,  how  wisely!  that  'Hhere  is  often  as 
great  vanity  in  withdrawing  and  retiring  men's  con- 
ceits from  the  world,  as  in  obtruding  them."  Ex- 
treme vanity  sometimes  hides  under  the  garb  of  ultra 
modesty.  When  I  see  people  haunted  by  the  idea 
of  self, — spreading  their  hands  before  their  faces  lest 
they  meet  the  reflection  of  it  in  every  other  face,  as 
if  the  world  were  to  them  like  a  French  drawing- 
room,  panelled  with  looking  glass, — always  fussily 
putting  their  obtrusive  self  behind  them,  or  dragging 
over  it  a  scanty  drapery  of  consciousness,  miscalled 
modesty, — always  on  their  defence  against  compli- 
ments, or  mistaking  sympathy  for  compliment,  which 
is  as  great  an  error  and  a  more  vulgar  one  than  mis- 
taking flattery  for  sympathy, — when  I  see  all  this,  as 
I  have  seen  it,  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  it  to  the 


i4 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


immaturity  of  the  character,  or  to  what  is  worse,  a 
total  want  of  simplicity.  To  some  characters  fame  is 
like  an  intoxicating  cup  placed  to  the  lips, — they  do 
well  to  turn  away  from  it,  who  fear  it  will  turn  their 
heads.  But  to  others,  fame  is  "  love  disguised,"  the 
love  that  answers  to  love,  in  its  widest  and  most  ex- 
alted sense.  It  seems  to  me,  that  we  should  all 
bring  the  best  that  is  in  us  (according  to  the  diversity 
of  gifts  which  God  has  given  us),  and  lay  it  a  rev- 
erend offering  on  the  altar  of  humanity, — ^if  not  to 
burn  and  enlighten,  at  least  to  rise  in  incense  to 
heaven.  So  will  the  pure  in  heart,  and  the  unselfish 
do;  and  they  will  not  heed  if  those  who  can  bring 
nothing  or  will  bring  nothing,  unless  they  can  blaze 
like  a  beacon,  call  out  "  vanity  !  " 


There  are  truths  which,  by  perpetual  repetition, 
have  subsided  into  passive  truisms,  till,  in  some 
moment  of  feeling  or  experience,  they  kindle  into 
conviction,  start  to  life  and  light,  and  the  truism 
becomes  again  a  vital  truth.  _  , 


■-'  ■-  .^^  ■■^:i- 


% 


•  It  is  well  that  we  obtain  what  we  require  at  the 
cheapest  possible  rate ;  yet  those  who  cheapen  goods, 
or  beat  down  the  price  of  a  good  article,  or  buy  in 
preference  to  what  is  good  and  genuine  of  its  kind 
an  inferior  article  at  an  inferior  price,  sometimes  do 


TRUTHS   AND   TRUISMS. 


15 


much  mischief.     Not  only  do  they  discourage  the 
production  of  a  better  article,  but  if  they  be  anxious 
about  the  education  of  the  lower  classes  they  undo 
with  one  hand  what  they  do  with  the  other ;   they 
encourage  the  mere  mechanic  and  the  production  of 
what  may  be  produced  without  effort  of  mind  and 
without  education,  and  they  discourage  and  wrong 
the  skilled  workman  for  whom  education  has  done 
much  more  and  whose  education  has  cost  much  more. 
\'       Every  work  so  merely  and  basely  mechanical, 
that  a  man  can  throw  iato  it  no  part  of  his  own  life 
and  soul,  does,  in  the  long  run,  degrade  the  human 
being.     It  is  only  by  giving  him  some  kind  of  mental 
and  moral  interest  in  the  labour  of  his  hands,  making 
it  an  exercise  of  his  understanding,  and  an  object  of 
his  sympathy,  that  we  can  really  elevate  the  work- 
man ;  and  this  is  not  the  case  with  very  cheap  pro- 
duction of  any  kind. — {Southampton^  Dec.  1849.) 


Since  this  was  written  the  same  idea  has  been 
carried  out,  with  far  more  eloquent  reasoning,  in  a 
noble  passage  which  I  have  just  found  in  Mr.  Bus- 
kin's last  volume  of  "  The  Stones  of  Venice "  (the 
Sea  Stories).  As  I  do  not  always  subscribe  to  his 
theories  of  Art,  I  am  the  more  delighted  with  this 
anticipation  of  a  moral  agreement  between  us. 

''  We  have  much  studied  and  much  perfected  of 
late,  the  great  civilized  invention  of  the  division  of 
labour,  only  we  give  it  a  false  name.    It  is  not,  truly 


Id 


ETHICAL  FRAGMENTS. 


speaking,  the  labour  that  is  divided,  but  the  men : 
— divided  into  mere  segments  of  men, — ^broken  into 
small  fragments  and  crumbs  of  life ;  so  that  all  the 
little  piece  of  intelligence  that  is  left  in  a  man  is  not 
enough  to  make  a  pin  or  a  nail,  but  exhausts  itself 
in  making  the  point  of  a  pin  or  the  head  of  a  nail. 
Now,  it  is  a  good  and  desirable  thing  truly  to  make 
many  pins  in  a  day,  but  if  we  could  only  see  with 
what  crystal  sand  their  points  are  polished — sand  of 
human  soul,  much  to  be  magnified  before  it  can  be 
discerned  for  what  it  is, — ^we  should  think  there 
might  be  some  loss  in  it  also ;  and  the  great  cry  that 
rises  from  all  our  manufacturing  cities,  louder  than 
their  furnace-blast,  is  all    in  very  deed  for  this, — 
that  we  manufacture  every  thing  there  except  men, — 
we  blanch  cotton,  and  strengthen  steel,  and  refine 
sugar,    and    shape    pottery;    but  to  brighten,    to 
strengthen,  to  refine,  or  to  form  a  single  living  spirit, 
never  enters  into  our  estimate  of  advantages;   and 
all  the  evil  to  which  that  cry  is  urging  our  myriads, 
can  be  met  only  in  one  way, — ^not  by  teaching  nor 
preaching ;  for  to  teach  them  is  but  to  show  them 
their  misery;   and   to   preach   to  them — if  we   do 
nothing  more  than  preach, — ^is  to  mock  at  it.     It 
can  be   met  only  by  a  right  understanding  on  the 
part  of  all  classes,  of  what  kinds  of  labour  are  good 
for  men,  raising  them  and  making  them  happy ;  by 
a  determined  sacrifice  of  such  convenience,  or  beauty 
or  cheapness,  as  is  to  be  got  only  by  the  degradation 


RBAUTY    AND    USE. 


m 


of  the  workman,  and  by  equally  determined  demand 
for  the  products  and  results  of  a  healthy  and  en- 
nobling labour."     .... 

''  We  are  always  in  these  days  trying  to  separate 
the  two  (intellect  and  work).  We  want  one  man 
to  be  always  thinking,  and  another  to  be  always 
working ;  and  we  call  one  a  gentleman  and  the 
other  an  operative :  whereas,  the  workman  ought  to 
be  often  thinking,  and  the  thinker  often  working, 
and  both  should  be  gentlemen  in  the  best  sense.  It 
is  only  by  labour  that  thought  can  be  made  healthy, 
and  only  by  thought  that  labour  can  be  made  hap- 
py ;  and  the  two  cannot  be  separated  with  impunity.'' 

Wordsworth,  however,  had  said  the  same  thing 
before  either  Of  us: 

■      •       '  "  Our  life  is  tum'd  "  ' 

Oat  of  her  coorfie  wherever  man  is  made 
'      An  offering  or  a  sacrifice,— a  tool  ,'i  .-^t  ;  , 

Or  implement,— a  passive  thing  employed         _  ■ .,  .,  ■, 
As  a  brute  mean,  without  acknowledgment 
Of  common  right  or  interest  in  the  end,  '  >  . . 

Used  or  abused  as  selfishness  may  prompt 
Say  what  can  follow  for  a  rational  soul 
Perverted  thus,  but  weakness  in  all  good  ., , 

,  And  strength  in  evil?" 


And  this  leads  us  to  the  consideration  of  another 
mistake,  analogous  with  the  above,  but  referable  in 
its  results  chiefly  to  the  higher,  or  what  Mr.  Ruskin 
calls  the  thinking,  classes  of  the  community. 

It  is  not  good  for  us  to  have  all  that  we  value 
of  worldly  material  things  in  the  form  of  money. 
It  is  the  most  vulgar  form  in  which  Value  can  be  in- 


KTHIOAL   rRAOMBNTS. 


vested.  Not  only  books,  pictures,  and  all  beautiM ' 
things  are  better ;  but  even  jewels  and  trinkets  are 
sometimes  to  be  preferred  to  mere  hard  money.  Lands 
and  tenements  are  good,  as  involving  duties;  but 
still  what  is  valuable  in  the  market  sense  should 
sometimes  take  the  ideal  and  the  beautiful  form,  and 
be  dear  and  lovely  and  valuable  for  its  own  sake  as 
well  as  for  its  convertible  worth  in  hard  gold.  I 
think  the  character  would  be  apt  to  deteriorate  when 
all  its  material  possessions  take  the  form  of  money, 
and  when  money  becomes  valuable  for  its  own  sake, 
or  as  the  mere  instrument  or  representative  of  power. 


4. 

We  are  told  in  a  late  account  of  Laura  Bridge- 
man,  the  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb  girl,  that  her 
instructor  once  endeavoured  to  explain  the  difference 
between  the  material  and  the  immaterial,  and  used 
the  word  "  soul."  She  interrupted  to  ask,  ''  What 
is  soul  ?  " 

*'  That  which  thinks,  feels,  hopes,  loves, " 

"  And  aches  ?  "  she  added  eagerly. 

I  was  reading  to-day  in  the  Notes  to  Boswell's 
Life  of  Johnson  that  "  it  is  a  theory  which  every 
one  knows  to  be  false  in  fojct^  that  virtue  in  real  life 
is  always  productive  of  happiness,  and  vice  of  misery." 
I  should  say  that  all  my  experience  teaches  me  that 
the  position  is  not  false  but  true :  that  virtue  does 
produce   happiness,  and  vice  does  produce  misery. 


THE    PHILOBOFHT   OF   HAPPINESS. 


19 


•■?  '* 


But  let  UB  Bottle  the  meaning  of  the  words.  By 
hdppinesSj  we  do  not  necessarily  mean  a  state  of 
worldly  prosperity.  By  virtue,  we  do  not  mean  a 
series  of  good  actions  which  may  or  may  not  be  re- 
warded, and,  if  done  for  reward,  lose  the  essence  of 
virtue.  Virtue,  according  to  my  idea,  is  the  habitual 
sense  of  right,  and  the  habitual  courage  to  act  up  to 
that  sense  of  right,  combined  with  benevolent  sym- 
pathies, the  charity  which  thinketh  no  evil.  This 
union  of  the  highest  conscience  and  the  highest  sym- 
pathy fulfils  my  notion  of  virtue.  Strength  is  essen- 
tial to  it;  weakness  incompatible  with  it.  Where 
virtue  is,  the  noblest  faculties  and  the  softest  feelings 
are  predominant ;  the  whole  being  is  in  that  state  of 
harmony  which  I  call  happiness.  Pain  may  reach  it, 
passion  may  disturb  it,  but  there  is  always  a  glimpse 
of  blue  sky  above  our  head ;  as  we  ascend  in  dignity 
of  being,  we  ascend  in  happiness,  which  is,  in  my 
sense  of  the  word,  the  feeling  which  connects  us 
with  the  infinite  and  with  God. 

And  vice  is  necessarily  misery :  for  that  fluctuation 
of  principle,  that  diseased  craving  for  excitement, 
that  weakness  out  of  which  springs  falsehood,  that 
suspicion  of  others,  that  discord  of  ourselves,  with 
the  absence  of  the  benevolent  propensities, — these 
constitute  misery  as  a  state  of  being.  The  most 
miserable  person  I  ever  met  with  in  my  life  had 
12,000/.  a  year ;  a  cunning  mind,  dexterous  to  com- 
pass its  own  ends ;  very  little  conscience,  not  enough, 


20 


BTRIOAL  FRAGMBNT8. 


one  would  have  thought,  to  yez  with  any  retrihutiTO 
pang ;  but  it  was  the  absence  of  goodness  that  made 
the  misery,  obvious  and  hourly  increasing.  The 
perpetual  kicking  against  the  pricks,  the  unreason- 
able exigeance  with  regard  to  things,  without  any  high 
standard  with  regard  to  persons, — these  made  the 
misery.  I  can  speak  of  it  as  misery  who  had  it  daily 
in  my  sight  for  five  long  years. 

I  have  had  arguments,  if  it  be  not  presumption  to 
call  them  so,  with  Oarlyle  on  this  point.  It  appeared 
to  me  that  he  confounded  happiness  with  pleasure, 
with  self-indulgence.  He  set  aside  with  a  towering 
scorn  the  idea  of  living  for  the  sake  of  happiness, 
so  called:  he  styled  this  philosophy  of  happiness 
"  the  philosophy  of  the  frying  pan."  But  this  was 
like  the  reasoning  of  a  child,  whose  idea  of  happiness 
is  plenty  of  sugar-plums.  Pleasure,  pleasurable  sen- 
sation, is,  as  the  world  goes,  something  to  thank  God 
for.  I  should  be  one  of  the  last  to  undervalue  it ;  I 
hope  I  am  one  of  the  last  to  live  for  it ;  and  pain  is 
pain,  a  great  evil,  which  I  do  not  like  either  to  inflict 
or  suffer.  But  happiness  lies  beyond  either  pain  or 
pleasure — is  as  sublime  a  thing  as  virtue  itself,  indi- 
visible from  it ;  and  under  this  point  of  view  it  seems 
a  perilous  mistake  to  separate  them. 

6.        -  '^ 

Dante  places  in  his  lowest  Hell  those  who  in  life 
were  melancholy  and  repining  without  a  cause,  thus 


'■\ 


.w 


INTELLBOT   AND   SYMPATHY. 


21 


profaniAg  and  darkening  God's  blessed  sunshine — 
Tristi  fummo  neP  aer  dolce ;  and  in  some  of  the 
ancient  Christian  systems  of  yirtnes  and  Tioes, 
Melancholy  is  unholy,  and  a  vice;  Oheerfulness  is 
holy,  and  a  virtue. 

Lord  Bacon  also  makes  one  of  the  characteristics 
of  moral  health  and  goodness  to  consist  in  ''  a  con- 
stant quick  sense  of  felicity,  and  a  noble  satisfaction.'* 

What  moments,  hours,  days  of  exquisite  felicity 
must  Christ,  our  Redeemer,  have  had,  though  it  has 
become  too  customary  to  place  him  before  us  only  in 
the  attitude  of  pain  and  sorrow  t  Why  should  he  be 
always  crowned  with  thorns,  bleeding  with  wounds, 
weeping  over  the  world  he  was  appointed  to  heal,  to 
save,  to  reconcile  with  God  ?  The  radiant  head  of 
Christ  in  Baphaers  Transfiguration  should  rather  be 
our  ideal  of  Him  who  came  '^  to  bind  up  the  broken- 
hearted, to  preach  the  acceptable  year  of  the  Lord." 


1 


6. 
A  PROFOUND  intellect  is  weakened  and  narrowed 
in  general  power  and  influence  by  a  limited  range  of 

sympathies.     I  think  this  is  especially  true  of  C : 

excellent,  honest,  gifted  as  he  is,  he  does  not  do  half 
the  good  he  might  do,  because  his  sympathies  are  so 
confined.  And  then  he  wants  gentleness:  he  does 
not  seem  to  acknowledge  that ''  the  wisdom  that  is 
from  above  is  gentle.''''  He  is  a  man  who  carries  his 
bright  intellect  as  a  light  in  a  dark  lantern ;  he  sees 


22 


ETHICAL   VRAOIIBNTS. 


only  the  objects  on  which  ho  chooses  to  throw  that 
blaze  of  light :  those  he  sees  vividly,  but,  as  it  were, 
exclusively.  All  other  things,  though  lying  near, 
are  dark,  because  perversely  he  tvill  not  throw  the 
light  of  his  mind  upon  them.  ^ 


WiLHELM  VON  HuHBOLDT  says,  "  Old  letters  lose 
their  vitality." 

t  Not  true.  It  is  because  they  retain  their  vitality 
that  it  is  so  dangerous  to  keep  some  letters, — so 
wicked  to  burn  others. 


V 

/ 


/ 


8. 

You  must  listen  to  this,  for  it  is  well  and  strongly 
put: — 

''  When  we  meet  with  an  instance  of  this  kind 
(the  allusion  is  to  Count  Leopardi),  in  which  the  pos- 
session of  God's  choicest  natural  gifts  of  genius, 
knowledge,  feeling,  is  combined  with-  a  blindness  to 
His  crowning  mercy  {i.  e.  our  redemption  through 
Christ),  it  is  wicked  to  deny — it  is  weak  to  explain  it 
away.  It  is  weaker  still  to  attempt  to  get  rid  of  it 
by  attenuating  the  truth  of  Revelation  in  order  to 
force  it  into  a  kind  of  resemblance  to  some  sentiment 
on  which  an  exaggerated  and  inflated  strength  is  put, 
in  order,  as  it  were,  to  meet  it  halfway  from  the  other 
side.  That  is  to  de^^roy  what  is  really  needful  for 
us, — the  integrity  of  the  Gospel, — in  order  to  do  what 


THB   POINT   OF   HONOUB. 


99 


row  that 
it  were, 
ig  near, 
irow  the 


ters  lose 

vitality 
era, — so 


itrongly 

is  kind 
ihe  pos- 
genius, 
ness  to 
hrough 
plain  it 
i  of  it 
rder  to 
itiment 
is  put, 
3  other 
ful  for 
0  what 


is  not  needful,  and  is  eommonly  wrong ;  nanely,  to 
pass  a  judgment  on  our  fellow-oreatures.  Never  lei 
it  be  forgotten  that  there  is  scarcely  a  single  moral 
action  of  a  single  human  being  of  which  other  men 
have  such  a  knowledge, — its  ultimate  grounds, — its 
surrounding  incidents,  and  the  real  determining 
causes  of  its  merits,  as  to  warrant  their  pronouncing 
a  conclusive  judgment." — Quarterly  Review. 

^-  9. 

A  MAN  thinks  himself,  and  is  thought  by  others  to 
be  insulted  when  another  man  gives  him  the  lie.  It 
is  an  offence  to  be  retracted  at  once,  or  only  to  be 
effaced  in  blood.  To  give  a  woman  the  lie  is  not  con- 
sidered in  the  same  unpardonable  light  by  herself  or 
others, — is  indeed  a  slight  thing.  Now,  whence  this 
difference  ?  Is  not  truth  as  dear  to  a  woman  as  to  a 
man?  Is  the  virtue  itself,  or  the  reputation  of  it, 
less  necessary  to  the  woman  than  to  the  man?  If 
not,  what  causes  this  distinction, — one  so  injurious  to 
the  morals  of  both  sexes  %  . - 

It  is  good  for  us  to  look  up,  morally  and  mentally. 
If  I  were  tired  I  would  get  some  help  to  hold  my 
head  up,  as  Moses  got  some  one  to  hold  up  his  arms 
while  he  prayed. 

''  Oe  qui  est  moins  que  moi  m'^teint  et  m'assomme ; 


ftl 


ETHICAL  FRAOMSNTS. 


oe  qui  est  a  c6t^  de  moi  m'ennuie  et  me  fatigue.  II 
n'y  a  que  ce  qui  est  au-dessus  de  moi  qui  me  sou- 
tienne  et  m'arrache  d  moi-mSme." 


m 


^«i,-r 


There  is  an  order  of  writers  who,  with  cha- 
racters perverted  or  hardened  through  long  practice 
of  iniquity,  yet  possess  an  inherent  divine  sense  of  the 
good  and  the  beautiful,  and  a  passion  for  setting  it 
forth,  so  that  men's  hearts  glow  with  the  tenderness 
and  the  elevation  which  lives  not  in  the  heart  of  the 
writer, — only  in  his  head. 

And  there  is  another  class  of  writers  who  are  ex- 
cellent in  the  social  relations  of  life,  and  kindly  and 
true  in  heart,  yet  who,  intellectually,  have  a  per- 
verted pleasure  in  the  ridiculous  and  distorted,  the 
cunning,  the  crooked,  the  vicious, — ^who  are  never 
weary  of  holding  up  before  us  finished  representa- 
tions of  folly  and  rascality. 

Now,  which  is  the  worst  of  these?  the  former, 
who  do  mischief  by  making  us  mistrust  the  good  ? 
or  the  latter,  who  degrade  us  by  making  us  familiar 
with  evil? 


11 


"  Thought  and  theory,"  said  Wordsworth,  "  must 
precede  all  action  that  moves  to  salutary  purposes. 
Yet  action  is  nobler  in  itself  than  either  thought  or 
theory." 


THOUGHT   AND   THEORY. 


25 


pie.    II 
me  sou- 


'ta 


m 


ith  cha- 
practice 
36  of  the 
BttiDg  it 
iderness 
)  of  the 

)  are  ez- 
idly  and 
a  por- 
ted, the 
B  never 
resenta- 

former, 
I  good? 
familiar 


"  must 
irposes. 
ight  or 


Yes,  and  no.  What  we  act  has  its  consequences 
on  earth.  What  we  thinky  its  consequences  in  hea- 
ven. It  is  not  without  reason  that  action  should 
be  preferred  before  barren  thought;  but  all  action 
which  in  its  result  is  worth  any  thing,  must  result 
from  thought.     So  the  old  rhymester  hath  it : 

"  He  that  good  tbinketh  good  may  do, 
And  God  will  help  him  there  unto ; 
For  waa  never  good  work  wrought, 
Without  beginning  of  good  thoaght" 

The  result  of  impulse  is  the  positive ;  the  result 
of  consideration  the  negative.  The  positive  is  essen- 
tially and  abstractedly  better  than  the  negative, 
though  relatively  to  facts  and  circumstances  it  may 
not  be  the  most  expedient. 

On  my  observing  how  often  I  had  had  reason  to 
regret  not  having  followed  the  first  impulse,  o.g.  said, 
"  In  good  minds  the  first  impulses  are  generally 
right  and  true,  and,  when  altered  or  relinquished 
from  regard  to  expediency  arising  out  of  complicated 
relations,  I  always  feel  sorry,  for  they  remain  right. 
Our  first  impulses  always  lean  to  the  positive,  our 
second  thoughts  to  the  negative ;  and  I  have  no 
respect  for  the  negative, — it  is  the  vulgar  side  of 
every  thing." 

On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  conceded,  that  one 
who  stands  endowed  with  great  power  and  with  great 
responsibilities  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  duties  and 
interests,  can  no  longer  take  things  in  this  simple 


U 


26 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


h 


fashion ;  for  the  good  first  impulse,  in  its  flow,  meets, 
perhaps,  some  rock,  and  splits  upon  it ;  it  recoils  on 
the  heart,  and  becomes  abortive.  Or  the  impulse 
to  do  good  here  becomes  injury  the9'e,  and  we  are 
forced  to  calculate  results ;  we  cannot  trust  to  them. 

I  HAVE  not  sought  to  deduce  my  principles  from 
conventional  notions  of  expediency,  but  have  be- 
lieved that  out  of  the  steady  adherence  to  certain 
fixed  principles,  the  right  and  the  expedient  mtist 
ensue,  and  I  believe  it  still.  The  moment  one  be- 
gins to  solder  right  and  wrong  together,  one's  con- 
science becomes  like  a  piece  of  plated  goods. 

It  requires  merely  passive  courage  and  strength 
to  resist,  and  in  some  cases  to  overcome  evil.  But 
it  requires  more — it  needs  bravery  and  self-reliance 
and  surpassing  faith — to  act  out  the  true  inspirations 
of  your  intelligence  and  the  true  impulses  of  your 
heart. 

Out  of  the  attempt  to  harmonise  our  actual  life 
with  our  aspirations,  our  experience  with  our  faith, 
we  Make  poetry, — or,  it  may  be,  religion. 

F used  the  phrase,  ^^  stung  into  heroism,^^ 

as  Shelley  said,  "  cradled  into  poetry,''*  by  wrong. 


18. 


Coleridge  calls  the  personal  existence  of  the 
Evil  Principle,  "  a  mere  fiction,  or,  at  best,  an  alle- 


Wy  meets, 
ecoils  on 
impulse 
I  we  are 
to  them. 

lies  from 
have  be- 
>  certain 
jnt  omtst 
,  one  be- 
ne's  con- 


strength 
n\.  But 
f-reliance 
pirations 
of  your 

Qtual  life 
ur  faith. 


eroism 


Tong. 


5) 
J 


J  of  the 
an  alle- 


THE    CATHOLIC    SPIRIT. 


27 


gory  supported  by  a  few  popular  phrases  and  figures 
of  speech,  used  incidentally  or  dramatically  by  the 
Evangelists."  And  he  says,  that  "  the  existence  of 
a  personal,  intelligent,  Evil  Being,  the  counterpart 
and  antagonist  of  God,  is  in  direct  contradiction  to 
the  most  express  declarations  of  Holy  Writ.  '  Shall 
there  be  evil  in  a  city^  and  tfie  Lord  hath  not  done 
it  ? '  Amos,  iii.  6.  *  I  make  peace  and  create  evil.'' — 
Isaiah,  xlv.  7.  This  is  the  deep  mystery  of  the 
abyss  of  God." 

Do  our  theologians  go  with  him  here  ?  I  think 
not:  yet,  as  a  theologian,  Coleridge  is  constantly 
appealed  to  by  Churchmen. 

'  U. 

We  find  (in  the  Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Co- 
rinthians), every  where  instilled  as  the  essence  of  all 
well-being  and  well-doing,  (without  which  the  wisest 
public  and  political  constitution  is  but  a  lifeless  for- 
mula, and  the  highest  powers  of  individual  endow- 
ment profitless  or  pernicious.)  the  spirit  of  a  divine 
sympathy  with  the  happiness  and  rights, — with  the 
peculiarities,  gifts,  graces,  and  endowments  of  other 
minds,  which  alone,  whether  in  the  family  or  in  the 
Church,  can  impart  unity  and  effectual  working  to- 
gether for  good  in  the  communities  of  men." 

"  The  Christian  religion  was,  in  fact,  a  charter  of 


li 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


freedom  to  the  whole  human  race." — Thorn' s  Dis- 
courses on  St.  Paulas  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians. 

And  this  is  the  true  Catholic  spirit, — the  spirit 
and  the  teaching  of  Paul, — in  contradistinction  to 
the  Eoman  Catholic  spirit, — the  spirit  and  tendency 
of  Peter,  which  stands  upon  forms,  which  has  no 
respect  for  individuality  except  in  so  far  as  it  can 
imprison  this  individuality  within  a  creed,  or  use  it 
to  a  purpose. 


,-y.  •-.:,  :   -    -■.  15.  •    .  ,   .  ... 

Dr.  Baillie  once  said  that  ''  all  his  observation 
of  death-beds  inclined  him  to  believe  that  nature 
intended  that  we  should  go  out  of  the  world  as 
unconscious  as  we  came  into  it."  "  In  all  my  ex- 
perience,'' he  added,  "  I  have  not  seen  one  instance 
in  fifty  to  the  contrary."  .  ,     -      i  _ 

Yet  even  in  such  a  large  experience  the  occur- 
rence of  "  one  instance  in  fifty  to  the  contrary " 
would  invalidate  the  assumption  that  such  was  the 
law  of  nature  (or  "  nature's  intention,"  which,  if  it 
means  any  thing,  means  the  same). 

The  moment  in  which  the  spirit  meets  death  is 
perhaps  like  the  moment  in  which  it  is  embraced  by 
sleep.  It  never,  I  suppose,  happened  to  any  one 
to  be  conscious  of  the  immediate  transition  from  the 
waking  to  the  sleeping  state. '  -  < 


THOUGHTS   ON    A    8ERM0N. 


29 


m^s  Dis- 
lians. 
he  spirit 
iction  to 
tendency 
L  has  no 
kS  it  can 
[)r  use  it 


lervation 
;  nature 
(7orld  as 
my  ex- 
instance 

e  occur- 
ntrary  " 
was  the 
ch,  if  it 

death  is 
•aced  by 
any  one 
Tom  the 


( Thoughts  on  a  Sermon.) 

He  is  really  sublime,  this  man !  with  his  faith  in 
"  the  religion  of  pain,"  and  "  the  deification  of  sorrow ! " 
But  is  he  therefore  right?  What  has  he  preached 
to  us  to-day  with  all  the  force  of  eloquence,  all  the 
earnestness  of  conviction  ?  that  "  pain  is  the  life  of 
God  as  shown  forth  in  Christ ;  " — "  that  we  are  to  be 
crucified  to  the  world  and  the  world  to  us."  This 
perpetual  presence  of  a  crucified  God  between  us  and 
a  pitying  redeeming  Christ,  leads  many  a  mourner  to 
the  belief  that  this  world  is  all  a  Golgotha  of  pain, 
and  that  we  are  here  to  crucify  each  other.  Is  this 
the  law  under  which  we  are  to  live  and  strive  ?  The 
missionary  Bridaine  accused  himself  of  sin  in  that  he 
had  preached  fasting,  penance,  and  the  chastisements 
of  God  to  wretches  steeped  in  poverty  and  dying  of 
hunger ;  and  is  there  not  a  similar  cruelty  and  misuse 
of  power  in  the  servants  of  Him  who  came  to  bind  up 
the  broken-hearted,  when  they  preach  the  necessity, 
or  at  least  the  theory,  of  moral  pain  to  those  whose 
hearts  are  aching  from  moral  evil  ? 

Surely  there  is  a  great  difference  between  the 
resignation  or  the  endurance  of  a  truthful,  faithful, 
loving,  hopeful  spirit,  and  this  dreadful  theology  of 
suffering  as  the  necessary  and  appointed  state  of 
things !  I,  for  one,  will  not  accept  it.  Even  while 
most  miserable,   I  will   believe  in  happiness;   even 


'HI 


'4 


^VH  £TUIOAL    FRAGMENTS. 

while  I  do  or  suffer  evil,  I  will  believe  in  goodness ; 
oven  while  my  eyes  see  not  through  tears,  I  will  be- 
lieve in  the  existence  of  what  I  do  not  see — that  God 
is  benign,  that  nature  is  fair,  that  the  world  is  not 
made  as  a  prison  or  a  penance.  While  I  stand  lost 
in  utter  darkness,  I  will  yet  wait  for  the  return  of 
the  unfailing  dawn, — even  though  my  soul  be  amazed 
into  such  a  blind  perplexity  that  I  know  not  on  which 
side  to  look  for  it,  and  ask  -'  where  is  the  East  ?  and 
whence  the  dayspring?"  For  the  East  holds  its 
wonted  place,  and  the  light  is  withheld  only  till  its 
appointed  time.      ' 

God  so  strengthen  me  that  I  may  think  of  pain 
and  sin  only  as  accidental  apparent  discords  in  his 
great  harmonious  scheme  of  good  !  Then  I  am  ready 
— I  will  take  up  the  cross,  and  bear  it  bravely,  while 
I  mtcst ;  but  I  will  lay  it  down  when  I  can,  and  in 
any  case  I  will  never  lay  it  on  another. 

If  I  fear  God  it  is  because  I  love  him,  and  be- 
lieve in  his  love ;  I  cannot  conceive  myself  as  stand- 
ing in  fear  of  any  spiritual  or  human  being  in  whose 
love  I  do  not  entirely  believe.  Of  that  Impersonation 
of  Evil,  who  goes  about  seeking  whom  he  may  de- 
vour, the  image  brings  to  me  no  fear,  only  intense 
disgust  and  aversion.  Yes,  it  is  because  of  his  love 
for  me  that  I  fear  to  offend  against  God ;  it  is  because 


oodness ; 
will  be- 
ihat  God 
d  is  not 
and  lost 
Bturn  of 
amazed 
>n  which 
st?  and 
olds  its 
J  till  its 

of  pain 
I  in  his 
tn  ready 
y,  while 
and  in 


and  be- 
i  stand- 
I  whose 
onatiou 
lay  de- 
intense 
is  love 
>ecause 


SOCIAL    OPINION. 


m 


of  his  love  that  his  displeasure  must  be  terrible. 
And  with  regard  to  human  beings,  only  the  being  I 
love  has  the  power  to  give  me  pain  or  inspire  me  with 
fear ;  only  those  in  whose  love  I  believe,  have  the 
power  to  injure  me.  Take  away  my  love,  and  you 
take  away  my  fear ;  take  away  th&ir  love,  and  you 
take  away  the  power  to  do  me  any  harm  which  can 
reach  me  in  the  sources  of  life  and  feeling. 

18. 

Social  opinion  is  like  a  sharp  knife.  There  are 
foolish  people  who  regard  it  only  with  terror,  and 
dare  not  touch  or  meddle  with  it.  There  are  more 
foolish  people,  who,  in  rashness  or  defiance,  seize  it 
by  the  blade,  and  get  cut  and  mangled  for  their  pains. 
And  there  are  wise  people,  who  grasp  it  discreetly 
and  boldly  by  the  handle,  and  use  it  to  carve  out 
their  own  purposes. 

While  we  were  discussing  Balzac's  celebrity  as  a 
romantic  writer,  she  (o.g.)  said,  with  a  shudder :  "  His 
laurels  are  steeped  in  the  tears  of  women, — every 
truth  he  tells  has  been  wrung  in  tortures  from  some 
woman's  heart." 

,      19. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  writing  in  1831,  seems  to 
regard  it  as  a  terrible  misfortune  that  the  whole 
burgher  class  in  Scotland  should  be  gradually  pre- 


32 


KTHIOAL    FKAtiMEM'ti. 


Hr  ;  • 


paring  for  representative  reform.  ''  I  mean,"  he 
says,  ''  the  middling  and  respectable  classes :  when  a 
borough  reform  comes,  which,  perhaps,  cannot  long  be 
delayed,  ministers  will  no  longer  return  a  member  for 
Scotland  from  the  towns."  "  The  gentry,"  he  adds, 
"  will  abide  longer  by  sound  principles,  for  they  are 
needy,  and  desire  advancement  for  themselves,  and 
appointments  for  their  sons  and  so  on.  But  this  is  a 
very  hollow  dependence,  and  those  who  sincerely  hold 
ancient  opinions  are  waxing  old,"  &c.,  &c. 

With  a  great  deal  more,  showing  the  strange 
moral  confusion  which  his  political  bias  had  caused 
in  his  otherwise  clear  head  and  honest  mind.  The 
sound  principles,  then,  by  which  educated  people  are 
to  abide, — over  the  decay  of  which  he  laments, — are 
such  as  can  only  be  upheld  by  the  most  vulgar  self- 
interest  !  If  a  man  should  utter  openly  such  senti- 
ments in  these  days,  what  should  wc  think  of  him  ? 

In  the  order  of  absolutism  lurk  the  elements  of 
change  and  destruction.  In  the  unrest  of  freedom, 
the  spirit  of  change  and  progress. 


20." 

"A  SINGLE  life,"  said  Bacon,  "doth  well  with 
churchmen,  for  charity  will  hardly  water  the  ground 
where  it  must  first  fill  a  pool."  ^ 

Certainly  there  are  men  whose  charities  are 
limited,  if  not  dried  up,  by  their  concentrated  do- 


i 


LANDOR's   wise   8ATIN0B. 


33 


he 


mestio  anxieties  and  relations.  But  there  are  others 
whose  charities  are  more  diffused,  as  well  as  healthier 
and  warmer,  through  the  strength  of  their  domestic 
affections. 

Wordsworth  speaks  strongly  of  the  evils  of  or- 
daining men  as  clergymen  in  places  where  they  had 
been  born  or  brought  up,  or  in  the  midst  of  their 
own  relatives :  "  Their  habits,  their  manners,  their 
talk,  their  acquaintanceships,  their  friendships,  and 
let  me  say  even  their  domestic  affections,  naturally 
draw  them  one  way,  while  their  professional  obliga- 
tions point  out  another."  If  this  were  true  univer- 
sally, or  even  generally,  it  would  be  a  strong  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  the  celibacy  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
clergy,  which  certainly  is  one  element,  and  not  the 
least  of  their  power. 


are 
do- 


21. 

Landor  says  truly :  "  Love  is  a  secondary  pas- 
sion in  those  who  love  most,  a  primary  in  those  who 
love  least :  he  who  is  inspired  by  it  in  the  strongest 
degree  is  inspired  by  honour  in  a  greater." 

"  Whatever  is  worthy  of  being  loved  for  any 
thing  is  worthy  to  be  preserved." 

Again : — "  Those  are  the  worst  of  suicides  who 
voluntarily  and  prepensely  stab  or  suffocate  their 
own  fame,  when  God  hath  commanded  them  to 
stand  on  high  for  an  example." 

2* 


84 


BTIIIOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


"  Weak  motives,"  he  says,  "  are  sufficient  for 
weak  minds  ;  whenever  we  see  a  mind  which  .we 
believed  a  stronger  than  our  own  moved  habitually 
by  what  appears  inadequate,  we  may  be  certain  that 
there  is — to  bring  a  metaphor  from  the  forest — more 
top  than  root.^^  ;; 

Here  is  another  sentence  from  the  same  writer — 
rich  in  wise  sayings  : — 

"  Plato  would  make  wives  common  to  abolish 
selfishness ;  the  very  mischief  which,  above  all  others, 
it  would  directly  and  immediately  bring  forth.  There 
is  no  selfishness  where  there  i^  a  wife  and  family. 
There  the  house  is  lighted  up  by  mutual  charities ; 
every  thing  achieved  for  them  is  a  victory ;  every 
thing  endured  a  triumph.  How  many  vices  are  sup- 
pressed that  there  may  be  no  bad  example  !  Ho:/ 
many  exertions  made  to  recommend  and  inculcate  a 
good  one  1  " 

True :  and  I  have  much  more  confidence  in  the 
charity  which  begins  in  the  home  and  diverges  into 
a  large  humanity,  than  in  the  world-wide  philanthro- 
py which  begins  at  the  outside  of  our  horizon  to  con- 
verge into  egotism,  of  which  I  could  show  you  many 
and  notable  examples.  ,     . 


22. 


H 


-    All  my  experience  of  the  world  teaches  me  that 
in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  the  safe  side 


; 


ROMAN    CATHOLIC    CONVERTS.  ff$ 

and  the  just  side  of  a  question  is  the  generous  side 
and  the  merciful  side.  This  your  mere  worldly  peo- 
ple do  not  seem  to  know,  and  therein  make  the  sor- 
riest and  the  vulgarest  of  all  mistakes.  *'  Four  etre 
assez  ton  il  faut  Vetre  trop : "  we  all  need  more 
mercy  than  we  deserve. 

How  often  in  this  world  the  actions  that  we  con- 
demn are  the  result  of  sentiments  that  we  love  and 
opinions  that  we  admire  ! 

28* 

A.  observed  in  reference  to  some  of  her 


friends  who  had  gone  over  to  the  Roman  Gatholio 
Church,  "  that  the  peace  and  comfort  which  they 
had  sought  and  found  in  that  mode  of  faith  was  like 
the  drugged  sleep  in  comparison  with  the  natural 
sleep  :  necessary,  healing  perhaps,  where  there  is 
disease  and  unrest,  not  otherwise." 

24 

"  A  roET,"  says  Coleridge,  "  ought  not  to  pick 
nature's  pocket.  Let  him  borrow,  and  so  borrow  as 
to  repay  by  the  very  act  of  borrowing.  Examine 
nature  accurately,  but  write  from  recollection,  and 
trust  more  to  your  imagination  than  your  memory." 

This  advice  is  even  more  applicable  to  the  painter, 
but  true  perhaps  in  its  application  to  all  artists.  Ka* 
phael  and  Mozart  were,  in  this  sense,  great  bor- 
rowers. 


86 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


26. 


''  What  is  the  difference  between  being  good  and 
being  bad  ?  the  good  do  not  yield  to  temptation  and 
the  bad  do." 

This  is  often  the  distinction  between  the  good 
and  the  bad  in  regard  to  act  and  deed ;  but  it  docs 
not  constitute  the  difference  between  being  good  and 
being  bad. 

26. 

The  Italians  say  (in  one  of  their  characteristic 
proverbs)  Sospetto  licenzia  Fede.  Lord  Bacon  inter- 
prets the  saying  "  as  if  suspicion  did  give  a  passport 
to  faith,"  which  is  somewhat  obscure  and  ambiguous. 
It  means,  that  suspicion  discharges  us  from  the  duty 
of  good  faith  ;  and  in  this,  its  original  sense,  it  is  like 
many  of  the  old  Italian  proverbs,  worldly  wise  and 
profoundly  immoral. 

27. 

It  was  well  said  by  Themistocles  to  the  King  of 
Persia,  that  "  speech  was  like  cloth  of  arras  opened 
and  put  abroad,  whereby  the  imagery  doth  appear  in 
figure,  whereas  in  thoughts  they  lie  but  in  packs" 
(i.  e.  rolled  up  or  packed  up).  Dryden  had  evidently 
this  passage  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  those  beautiful 
lines:  ^ 


,»  KILUNO   ORUB7S.  97 

**  BpMch  Is  the  light,  tiM  mornlog  of  the  mind 
It  sprMda  the  hoauteotu  Imiiges  abro«d, 
Which  else  He  Airled  and  shrouded  Id  the  Mui/' 

Here  the  comparison  of  Thcmistoclcs,  happy  in  itself, 
is  expanded  into  a  vivid  poetical  image. 

ts. 

*'  Those  are  the  killing  griefs  that  do  not  speak/* 
is  true  of  some,  not  all  characters.  There  are  natures 
in  which  the  killing  grief  finds  utterance  while  it  kills : 
moods  in  which  we  cry  aloud,  '*  as  the  beast  crieth, 
expansive  not  appealing."  That  is  my  own  nature : 
so  in  grief  or  in  joy,  I  say  as  the  birds  sing  : 

"  Und  wenn  dcr  Mensch  In  seiner  Qnal  Terstommt, 
Gab  mir  ein  Got  zu  sagen  waa  iuh  leldet " 

'  ■  * 

Blessed  is  the  memory  of  those  who  have  kept 
themselves  unspotted  frmn  the  world ! — ^yet  more 
blessed  and  more  dear  the  memory  of  those  who  have 
kept  themselves  unspotted  in  the  world ! 

30. 

Everything  that  ever  has  been,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  lyorld  till  now,  belongs  to  us,  is  ours,  is 
even  a  part  of  us.  We  belong  to  the  future,  and  shall 
be  a  part  of  it.  Therefore  the  sympathies  of  all  are 
in  the  past ;  only  the  poet  and  the  prophet  sympathise 
with  the  future. 


f 


38 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


K 


When  Tennyson  makes  Ulysses  say,  "  I  am  a  part 
of  all  that  I  have  seen,"  it  ought  to  be  rather  the 
converse, — "  What  I  have  seen  becomes  a  part  of  me." 


31. 


In  what  regards  policy — government — the  interest 
of  the  many  is  sacrificed  to  the  few ;  in  what  regards 
society,  the  morals  and  happiness  of  individuals  are 
sacrificed  to  the  many. 


II 


Ijli! 


32. 

We  spoke  to-night  of  the  cowardice,  the  crime  of 
a  particular  suicide  :  o.  g.  agreed  as  to  this  instance, 
but  added :  "  There  is  a  diflferent  aspect  under  which 
suicide  might  be  regarded.  It  is  not  always,  I  think, 
from  a  want  of  religion,  or  in  a  spirit  of  defiance,  or 
a  want  of  confidence  in  God  that  we  quit  life.  It  is 
as  if  we  should  flee  to  the  feet  of  the  Almighty  and 
embrace  his  knees,  and  exclaim,  '  0  my  father  I  take 
me  home  !  I  have  endured  as  long  as  it  was  possible ; 
I  can  endure  no  more,  so  I  come  to  you ! ' " 

Of  an  amiable  man  with  a  disagreeable  expres- 
sionless face,  she  said  :  "  His  countenance  always 
gives  me  the  idea  of  matter  too  strong,  too  hard  for 
the  soul  to  pierce  through.  It  is  as  a  plaster  mask 
which  I  long  to  break  (making  the  gestures  with  her 
hand),  that  I  ma^  see  the  countenance  of  his  heart, 
for  that  must  be  beautiful !  "  , ,  . 


PROGRESS    AND    PROGRESSION. 


39 


88. 

Carlyle  said  to  me :  ''I  want  to  see  some  insti- 
tution to  teach  a  man  the  truth,  the  worth,  the  beauty, 
the  heroism  of  which  his  present  existence  is  capable ; 
where's  the  use  of  sending  him  to  study  what  the 
Greeks  and  Komans  did,  and  said,  and  wrote  ?  Do 
ye  think  the  Greeks  and  Romans  would  have  been 
what  they  were,  if  they  had  just  only  studied  what 
the  Phoenicians  did  before  them  ?  "  I  should  have 
answered,  had  I  dared:  "Yet  perhaps  the  Greeks 
and  Eomans  would  not  have  been  what  they  were  if 
the  Egyptians  and  Phoenicians  had  not  been  before 
them." 

34. 

Can  there  be  progress  which  is  not  progression — 
which  does  not  leave  a  past  from  which  to  start — 
on  which  to  rest  our  foot  when  we  spring  forward  1 
No  wise  man  kicks  the  ladder  from  beneath  him,  or 
obliterates  the  traces  of  the  road  through  which  he 
has  travelled,  or  pulls  down  the  memorials  he  has 
built  by  the  way  side.  We  cannot  get  on  without 
linking  our  present  and  our  future  with  our  past. 
All  reaction  is  destructive — all  progress  conservative. 
When  we  have  destroyed  that  which  the  past  built 
up,  what  reward  have  we  ? — we  are  forced  to  fall  back, 
and  have  to  begin  anew.  "  Novelty,"  as  Lord  Bacon 
says,  "  cannot  be  content  to  add,  but  it  must  deface." 


40 


ETHICAL  FBAGMBNTS. 


For  this  very  reason  novelty  is  not  progress,  as  the 
French  would  try  to  persuade  themselves  and  us. 
We  gain  nothing  by  defacing  and  trampling  down  the 
idols  of  the  past  to  set  up  new  ones  in  their  places — 
let  it  be  sufficient  to  leave  them  behind  us,  measuring 
our  advance  by  keeping  them  in  sight. 

.3;  36. 

E was  compassionating  to-day  the  old  and 

the  invalided ;  those  whose  life  is  prolonged  in  spite 
of  suflfering ;  and  she  seemed,  even  out  of  the  excess 
of  her  pity  and  sympathy,  to  wish  them  fairly  out  of 
the  world ;  but  it  is  a  mistake  in  reasoning  and  feel- 
ing. She  does  not  know  how  much  of  happiness  may 
consist  with  suffering,  with  physical  suffering,  and 
even  with  mental  suffering. 


I';  ii 


86. 

'*  Renoncez  dans  votre  dme,  et  renoncez  y  fer- 
mement,  une  fois  pour  toutes,  a  vouloir  vous  con- 
naitre  au-dela  de  cette  existence  passagere  qui  vous 
est  imposee,  et  vous  redeviendrez  agr6able  k  Dieu, 
utile  aux  autres  hommes,  tranquille  aveo  vous- 
m^mes." 

This  does  not  mean  "  renounce  hope  or  faith  in 
the  future."  No !  But  renounce  that  perpetual 
craving  after  a  selfish  interest  in  the  unrevealed 
future  life  which  takes  the  true  relish  from  the  duties 


LIFE    IN    THE    FUTURE. 


41 


and  the  pleasures  of  thia  We  can  conceive  of  no 
future  life  which  is  not  a  continuation  of  this :  to  an- 
ticipate in  that  future  life,  another  life,  a  different 
life ;  what  is  it  but  to  call  in  doubt  our  individual 
identity  ? 

If  we  pray,  "  0  teach  us  where  and  what  is 
peace  ! "  would  not  the  answer  be,  "  In  the  grave  ye 
shall  have  it — not  before  ?  "  Yet  is  it  not  strange 
that  those  who  believe  most  absolutely  in  an  after 
life,  yet  think  of  the  grave  as  peace  ?  Now,  if  we 
carry  this  life  with  us — and  what  other  life  can  we 
carry  with  us,  unless  we  cease  to  be  ourselves — how 
shall  there  be  peace? 

As  to  the  future,  my  soul,  like  Gate's,  "  shrinks 
back  upon  herself  and  startles  at  destruction ;  "  but 
I  do  not  think  of  my  own  destruction,  rather  of  that 
which  I  love.  That  I  should  cease  to  be  is  not  very 
intolerable ;  but  that  what  I  love,  and  do  now  in  my 
soul  possess,  should  cease  to  be — there  is  the  pang, 
the  terror  I  I  desire  that  whioh  I  love  to  be  immor- 
tal, whether  I  be  so  myself  or  not. 

Is  not  the  idea  which  most  men  entertain  of  an- 
other, of  an  eternal  life,  merely  a  continuation  of 
this  present  existence  under  pleasanter  conditions  ? 
We  cannot  conceive  another  state  of  existence, — we 
only  fancy  we  do  so. 


42 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


>'  "  I  CONCEIVE  that  in  all  probability  we  have  im- 
mortality already.  Most  men  seem  to  divide  life 
and  immortality,  making  them  two  distinct  things, 
when,  in  fact,  they  are  one  and  the  same.  What  is 
immortality  but  a  continuation  of  life — life  which  is 
already  our  own  ?  We  have,  then,  begun  our  immor- 
tality even  now." 

,  "  For  the  same  reason,  or,  rather,  through  the 
same  want  of  reasoning  by  which  we  make  life  and 
immortality  two  (distinct  things),  do  we  make  time 
and  eternity  two,  which  like  the  others  are  really 
one  and  the  same.  As  immortality  is  but  the  con- 
tinuation of  life,  so  eternity  is  but  the  continuation 
of  time ;  and  what  we  call  time  is  only  that  part  of 
eternity  in  which  we  exist  now^ — The  New  Philo- 
sophy. 


t  87. 

Strength  does  not  consist  only  in 
the  less.  There  are  diflferent  sorts  of 
well  as  diflferent  degrees : — The  strength 
resist ;  the  strength  of  steel  to  oppose ; 
of  the  fine  gold,  which  you  can  twist 
finger,  but  which  can  bear  the  force  of 
pounds  without  breaking. 


the  mare  or 
strength  as 
of  marble  to 
the  strength 
round  your 
innumerable 


I 


88. 


Goethe  used  to  say,  that  while  intellectual  attain* 
mcnt  is  progressive,  it  is  difficult  to  be  as  good  when 


MOBAL    BUFFViUNG. 


43 


wo  are  old,  as  we  were  when  young.  Dr.  Johnson 
has  expressed  the  same  thing.  "  .    . ,. 

Then  are  we  to  assume,  that  to  do  good  effectively 
and  wisely  is  the  privilege  of  age  and  experience  ? 
To  he  good,  through  faith  in  goodness,  the  privilege 
of  the  young  ? 

To  preserve  our  faith  in  goodnesd  with  an  ex- 
tended knowledge  of  evil,  to  preserve  the  tenderness 
of  our  pity  after  long  contemplation  of  pain,  and  the 
warmth  of  our  charity  after  long  experience  of  false- 
hood, is  to  be  at  once  good  and  wise — to  understand 
and  to  love  each  other  as  the  angels  who  look  down 
upon  us  from  heaven. 

We  can  sometimes  love  what  we  do  not  under- 
stand, but  it  is  impossible  completely  to  understand 
what  we  do  not  love. 

I  OBSERVE,  that  in  our  relations  with  the  people 
around  us,  we  forgive  them  more  readily  for  what 
they  </o,  which  they  can  help,  than  for  what  they  are, 
which  they  cannot  help. 


39. 

"  Whence  springs  the  greatest  degree  of  moral 
suffering  ?  "  was  a  question  debated  this  evening,  but 
not  settled.  It  was  argued  that  it  would  depend  on 
the  texture  of  character,  its  more  or  less  conscien- 
tiousness, susceptibility,  or  strength.  I  thought  from 
two  sentiments — from  jealousy y  that  is,  the  sense  of 


44 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


a  wrong  endured,  in  one  class  of  characters ;  from 
remorse^  that  is,  from  the  sense  of  a  wrong  inflicted, 
in  another,       ,:,.*.•.,:■*  ^. ,'..>.  •-  .,'>.;.';';-. 

40.  ^ 

The  bread  of  life  is  love  ;  the  salt  of  life  is  work ; 
the  sweetness  of  life,  poesj ;  the  water  of  life,  faith. 

-V',  '        \  41. 

:  I  HAVE  seen  triflers  attempting  to  draw  out  a 
deep  intellect;  and  they  reminded  me  of  children 
throwing  pebbles  down  the  well  at  Carisbrook,  that 
they  might  hear  them  sound. 


42. 

A  BOND  is  necessary  to  complete  our  being,  only 
we  must  be  careful  that  the  bond  does  not  become 
bondage. 

"  The  secret  of  peace,"  said  a. b.,  "is  the  reso- 
lution of  the  lesser  into  the  greater;"  meaning, 
perhaps,  the  due  relative  appreciation  of  our  duties, 
and  the  proper  placing  of  our  affections ;  or,  did  she 
not  rather  mean,  the  resolving  of  the  lesser  duties 
and  aflections  into  the  higher?  But  it  is  true  in 
either  sense.    , 

1  The  love  we  have  for  Genius  is  to  common  love 
what  the  fire  on  the  altar  is  to  the  fire  on  the  hearth. 
We  cherish  it  not  for  warmth  or  for  service,  but  for 
an  offering,  as  the  expression  of  our  worship,  ' 


MOTIVES   AND   IMPULSES. 


46 


All  love  not  responded  to  and  accepted  is  a  spe- 
cies of  idolatry.  It  is  like  the  worship  of  a  dumb 
beautiful  image  we  have  ourselves  set  up  and  deified, 
but  cannot  inspire  with  life,  nor  warm  with  sympathy. 
No ! — though  we  should  consume  our  own  hearts  on 
the  altar.  Our  love  of  God  would  be  idolatry  if  yre 
did  not  believe  in  his  love  for  us — his  responsive  love. 

In  the  same  moment  that  we  begin  to  speculate 
on  the  possibility  of  cessation  or  change  in  any  strong 
affection  that  we  feel,  even  from  that  moment  wc 
may  date  its  death : — it  has  become  the  fetch  of  the 
living  love. 

43. 

"  Motives,"  said  Coleridge,  "  imply  weakness, 
and  the  reasoning  powers  imply  the  existence  of 
evil  and  temptation.  The  angelic  nature  would  act 
from  impulse  alone."  This  is  the  sort  of  angel  which 
Angelico  da  Fiesole  conceived  and  represented,  and 
he  only.  > 

'■'  Again  : — "  If  a  man's  conduct  can  neither  be  as- 
cribed to  the  angelic  or  the  bestial  within  him,  it  must 
be  fiendish.     Passion  without  appetite  is  fiendish.'" 

And,  he  might  have  added,  appetite  without 
passion,  bestial.  Love  in  which  is  neither  appetite 
nor  passion  is  angelic.  The  union  of  all  is  human ; 
and  according  as  one  or  other  predominates,  does  the 
human  being  approximate  to  the  fiend,  the  beast,  or 
the  angel. 


46 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


I  don't  mean  to  say  that  principle  is  not  a  finer 
thing  than  passion ;  but  passions  existed  before  prin- 
ciples :  they  came  into  the  world  with  us ;  principles 
are  superinduced. 

There  are  bad  principles  as  well  as  bad  passions ; 
and  more  bad  principles  than  bad  passions.  Good 
principles  derive  life,  and  strength,  and  warmth  from 
high  and  good  passions ;  but  principles  -do  not  give 
life,  they  only  bind  up  life  into  a  consistent  whole. 
One  great  fault  in  education  is,  the  pains  taken  to 
inculcate  principles  rather  than  to  train  feelings. 
It  is  as  if  we  took  it  for  granted  that  passions  could 
only  be  bad,  and  are  to  be  ignored  or  repressed  alto- 
gether,— the  old  mischievous  monkish  doctrine. 


44. 
It  is  easy  to  be  humble  where  humility  is  a  con- 
descension— easy  to  concede  where  we  know  ourselves 
wronged — easy  to  forgive    where  vengeance    is  in 
our  power. 

"  You  and  I,"  said  h.  g.,  yesterday,  "  are  alike  in 
this : — ^both  of  us  so  abhor  injustice,  that  we  are 
ready  to  fight  it  with  a  broomstick  if  we  can  find 
nothing  better !  " 

"  The  wise  only  possess  ideas — the  greater  part  of 
mankind  are  possessed  by  them.  When  once  the 
mind,  in  despite  of  the  remonstrating  conscience,  has 
abandoned  its  free  power  to  a  haunting  impulse  or 


DOMINANT    IDEAS. 


i1 


idea,  then  whatever  tends  to  give  depth  and  vividness 
to  this  idea  or  indefinite  imagination,  increases  its 
despotism,  and  in  the  same  proportion  renders  the 
reason  and  free  will  ineflFeetual."  This  paragraph 
from  Coleridge  sounds  like  a  truism  until  we  have 
felt  its  truth. 

"  La  Volont^,  en  se  dereglant,  devient  passion  ; 
cette  passion  continuee  se  change  en  habitude,  et 
faute  de  resister  a  cette  habitude  elle  se  transforme 
en  bcsoin." — -S^  Avgustin.  Which  may  be  ren- 
dered— "  Out  of  the  unregulated  will,  springs  pas- 
sio?t,  out  of  passion  gratified,  habit ;  out  of  habits 
unresisted,  necessity."'  TLI'',  also,  is  one  of  the  truths 
which  become,  from  the  impossibility  of  disputing 
or  refuting  them,  truisms — and  little  regarded,  till 
the  truth  makes  itself  felt. 


•I 


I  WISH  I  could  realise  what  you  call  my  "  grand 
idea  of  being  independent  of  the  absent."  I  have  not 
a  friend  worthy  the  name,  whose  absence  is  not  pain 
and  dread  to  me ; — death  itself  is  terrible  only  as  it 
is  absence.  At  some  moments,  if  I  could,  I  would 
cease  to  love  those  who  are  absent  from  me,  or  to 
speak  more  correctly,  those  whose  path  in  life  diverges 
from  mine — whose  dwelling  place  is  far  oflF; — with 
whom  I  am  united  in  the  strongest  bonds  of  sympathy 
while  separated  by  duties  and  interests,  by  space  and 
time.     The  presence  of  those  whom  we  love  is  as 


I 


a 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


a  double  life;  absence,  in  its  anxious  longing,  and 
sense  of  vaoanoy,  is  as  a  foretaste  of  death. 

''  La  mort  de  nos  amis  ne  compte  pas  du  moment 
od  ils  meuront,  mais  de  celui  oil  nous  cessons  de  vivre 
avee  eux ;  "  or,  it  might  rather  be  said,  pour  eux ; 
but  I  think  this  arises  from  a  want  either  oi  faith  or 
faithfulness. 

"  La  peur  des  morts  est  une  abominable  faiblesse  I 
o^est  la  plus  commune  et  la  plus  barbare  des  profana- 
tions ;  les  mires  ne  la  connaissent  pas ! " — And  why  ? 
Because  the  most  faithful  love  is  the  love  of  the 
mother  for  her  ohild. 

At  dinner  to*day  there  was  an  attempt  made 
by  two  very  clever  men  to  place  Theodore  Hook 
above  Sydney  Smith.  I  fought  with  all  my  might 
against  both.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  mind  must  be 
strangely  warped  that  could  ever  place  on  a  par 
two  men  with  aspirations  and  purposes  so  different, 
whether  we  consider  them  merely  as  individuals,  or 
called  before  the  bar  of  the  public  as  writers.  I  do 
not  take  to  Sydney  Smith  personally,  because  my 
nature  feels  the  want  of  the  artistic  and  imaginative 
in  his  nature ;  but  see  what  he  has  done  for  human- 
ity, for  society,  for  liberty,  for  truth, — for  us 
women !  What  has  Theodore  Hook  done  that 
has  not  perished  with  him  ?     Even   as   wits — and 


THEODORE    HOOK    AND    SYDNEY    8MITII. 


49 


I  have  been  in  company  with  both — I  could  not 
compare  them ;  but  they  say  the  wit  of  Theodore 
Hook  was  only  fitted  for  the  company  of  men — the 
strongest  proof  that  it  was  not  genuine  of  its  kind, 
that  when  most  bearable,  it  was  most  superficial.  I 
set  aside  the  other  obvious  inference,  that  it  required 
to  be  excited  by  stimulants  and  those  of  the  coarsest, 
grossest  kind.  The  wit  of  Sydney  Smith  almost 
always  involved  a  thought  worth  remembering  for 
its  own  sake,  as  well  as  worth  remembering  for  its 
brilliant  vehicle :  the  value  of  ten  thousand  pounds 
sterling  of  sense  concentrated  into  a  cut  and  polished 
diamond.  '  v-^-v-^ 

It  is  not  true,  as  I  have  heard  it  said,  that  after 
leaving  the  society  of  Sydney  Smith  you  onl}  re- 
membered how  much  you  had  laughed,  not  the  good 
things  at  which  you  had  laughed.  Few  men — wits 
by  profession — ever  said  so  many  memorable  things 
as  those  recorded  of  Sydney  Smith. 


4it,  \  ' 

"  When  we  would  show  any  one  that  he  is  mis- 
taken, our  best  course  is  to  observe  on  what  side 
he  considers  the  subject, — for  his  view  of  it  is  gene- 
rally right  on  this  side, — and  admit  to  him  that  he 
is  right  so  far.  He  will  be  satisfied  with  this  ac- 
knowledgment, that  he  was  not  wrong  in  his  judg- 
ment, but  only  inadvertent  in  not  looking  at  the 
whole  of  the  case." — Pascal. 

3 


60 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


P. 


48. 

"  We  should  reflect,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  preach- 
ing against  ambition,  "that  whatever  tempts  the 
pride  and  vanity  of  ambitious  persons  is  not  so  big 
as  the  smallest  star  which  we  see  scattered  in  dis- 
order and  unregarded  on  the  pavement  of  heaven." 

Very  beautiful  and  poetical,  but  certainly  no 
good  argument  against  the  sin  he  denounces.  The 
star  is  inaccessible,  and  what  tempts  our  pride  or  our 
ambition  is  only  that  which  we  consider  with  hope 
as  accessible.  That  we  look  up  to  the  stars  not 
desiring,  not  aspiring,  but  only  loving — therein  lies 
our  hearts'  truest,  holiest,  safest  devotion  as  con- 
trasted with  amhitio7i. 

It  is  the  "  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star,"  that 
leads  to  its  burning  itself  in  the  candle. 

The  brow  stamped  "  with  the  hieroglyphics  of  an 
eternal  sorrow,"  is  a  strong  and  beautiful  expression 
of  Bishop  Taylor's. 

He  says  truly :  "  It  is  seldom  that  God  sends 
such  calamities  upon  men  as  men  bring  upon  them- 
selves and  suflFer  willingly."  And  again :  "  What 
would  not  tender  woman  suffer  to  hide  her  shame  ! " 
What  indeed  !  And  again  :  "  Nothing  is  intolerable 
that  is  necessary."  And  again:  "Nothing  is  to  be 
esteemed  evil  which  God  and  nature  have  fixed  with 
eternal  sanctions." 

There  is  not  one  of  these  ethical  sentences  which 


i 


il 


WEKTIIKH    AND    CHILDE   HAROLD. 


If 


,  preach- 
ipts  tho 
t  so  big 
1  in  dis- 
aven." 
ainly  no 
Bs.  The 
ie  or  our 
ith  hope 
stars  not 
?rein  lies 
as   con- 


ar 


V 


that 


lies  of  an 
spression 

od  sends 
an  them- 
"  What 
shame ! " 
tolerable 
is  to  be 
ixed  with 

$es  which 


might  not  bo  treated  as  a  text  and  expounded,  open* 
ing  into  as  many  "  branches "  of  consideration  as 
ever  did  a  Presbyterian  sermon.  Yet  several  involve 
a  fallacy,  as  it  seems  to  mo ; — others  a  deeper,  wider, 
and  more  awful  signification  than  Taylor  himself 
Hcems  to  have  contemplated  when  ho  uttered  them. 

40. 

The  same  reasons  which  rendered  Goethe's 
"  Werther  "  so  popular,  so  passionately  admired  at 
the  time  it  appeared — ^just  after  the  seven  years' 
war, — helped  to  render  Lord  Byron  so  popular  in 
his  time.  It  was  not  the  individuality  of  "  Werther," 
nor  the  individuality  of  "  Childe  Harold "  which 
produced  the  effect  of  making  them,  for  a  time,  a 
pervading  power, — a  part  of  the  life  of  their  con* 
temporaries.  It  was  because  in  both  cases  a  chord 
was  struck  which  was  ready  to  vibrate.  A  phase  of 
feeling  pre-existent,  palpitating  at  the  heart  of  so- 
ciety,  which  had  never  found  expression  in  any  poetio 
form  since  the  days  of  Dante,  was  made  visible  and 
audible  as  if  by  an  electric  force ;  words  and  formn 
were  given  to  a  diffused  sentiment  of  pain  and  resist- 
ance, caused  by  a  long  period  of  war,  of  political  and 
social  commotion,  and  of  unhealthy  morbid  excite* 
ment.  "Werther"  and  "Childe  Harold"  will 
never  perish ;  because,  though  they  have  ceased  to 
be  the  echo  of  a  wide  despair,  there  will  always  be, 


'> 


52 


ETHICAL   FRAOMENTS. 


unhappily,  individual  minds  and  hearts  to  respond  to 
the  individuality.  -  ■  ^,r,  .   ^     ?  ,m'  ^     •  '#  'j-  ? 

Lord  Byron  has  sometimes,  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, "  curdled  "  a  whole  world  of  meaning  into 
the  compass  of  one  line : — 

"  The  starry  Galileo  and  his  woes." 

"  The  blind  old  man  of  Chio's  rocky  isle." 

Here  every  word,  almost  every  syllable,  paints  an 
idea.  Such  lines  are  picturesque.  And  I  remember 
another,  from  Thomson,  I  think : — 

"  Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main.** 

In  general,  where  words  are  used  in  description, 
the  objects  and  ideas  flow  with  the  words  in  succes- 
sion. Bui  in  each  of  these  lines  the  mind  takes  in  a 
wide  horizon,  comprising  a  multitude  of  objects  at 
once,  as  the  eye  takes  in  a  picture,  with  scene,  and 
action,  and  figures,  foreground  and  background,  all 
at  once.  That  is  the  reason  I  call  such  lines  pic- 
turesque. 

m 

I  HAVE  a  great  admiration  for  power,  a  great 
terror  of  weakness — especially  in  my  own  sex, — ^yet 
feel  that  my  love  is  for  those  who  overcome  the 
mental  and  moral  suffering  and  temptation,  through 
excess  of  tenderness  rather  than  through  excess  of 
strength ;  for  those  whose  refinement  and  softness  of 


espond  to 


.«•     «J.t,|! 


s  own  ex- 
ming  into 


paints  an 
remember 


scription, 
n  succes- 
)akes  in  a 
)bjects  at 
cene,  and 
ound,  all 
lines  jnc- 


a  great 

sex, — ^yet 
come  the 
through 
excess  of 
ftness  of 


MOKBY    OBLIGATIONS, 


53 


nature  mingling  with  high  intellectual  power  and 
the  capacity  for  strong  passion,  present  to  me  a  prob- 
lem to  solve,  which,  when  solved,  I  take  to  my  heart. 
The  question  is  not,  which  of  the  two  diversities  of 
character  be  the  highest  and  best,  but  which  is  most 
sympathetic  with  my  own. 

61. 

C told  me,  that  some  time  ago,  when  poor 

Bethune  the  Scotch  poet  first  became  known,  and 

was  in  great  hardship,  C himself  had  collected  a 

little  sum  (about  30/.),  and  sent  it  to  him  through 
his  publishers.  Bethune  wrote  back  to  refuse  it 
absolutely,  and  to  say  that,  while  he  had  head  and 

hands,  he  would  not  accept  charity.     C wrote 

to  him  in  answer,  still  anonymously,  arguing  against 
the  principle,  as  founded  in  false  pride,  &c.  Now 
poor  Bethune  is  dead,  and  the  money  is  found  un- 
touched,— left  with  a  friend  to  be  returned  to  the 
donors ! 

This  sort  of  disgust  and  terror,  which  all  finely 
constituted  minds  feel  with  regard  to  pecuniary  obli- 
gation,— my  own  utter  repugnance  to  it,  even  from 
the  hands  of  those  I  most  love, — makes  one  sad  to 
tliink  of.  It  gives  one  such  a  miserable  impression 
of  our  social  humanity ! 

Goethe  makes  the  same  remark  in  the  ''  Wilhelm 
Meister : " — "  Es  ist  sonderbar  welch  ein  wunder- 
liches  Bedenken  man  sich  macht,  Geld  von  Freunden 


54 


BTHIOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


liiiiii 
■  11 


und  Gonnern  anzunehmen,  von  denen  man  jede  an- 

i 
.dere  Gabe  mit  Dank  und  Freude  empfangen  wiirde." 

-•  -    •  52.  -       '- 

"  In  the  celestial  hierarchy,  according  to  Diouy- 
sius  Areopageta,  the  angels  of  Love  hold  the  first 
place,  the  angels  of  Light  the  second,  and  the  Thrones 
and  Dominations  the  third.  Among  terrestrials,  the 
Intellects,  which  act  through  the  imagination  upon 
the  heart  of  man — i.e.  poets  and  artists — may  be 
accounted  first  in  order;  the  merely  scientific  intel- 
lects the  second ;  and  the  merely  ruling  intellects — 
those  which  apply  themselves  to  the  government  of 
mankind,  without  the  aid  of  either  science  or  ima- 
gination— will  not  be  disparaged  if  they  are  placed 
last." 

All  government,  all  exercise  of  power — no  matter 
in  what  form — which  is  not  based  in  love  and  directed 
by  knowledge,  is  a  tyranny.  It  is  not  of  God,  and 
shall  not  stand. 

*'  A  time  will  come  when  the  operations  of  charity 
will  no  longer  be  carried  on  by  machinery,  relentless, 
ponderous,  indiscriminate,  but  by  human  creatures, 
watchful,  tearful,  considerate,  and  wise." — Westmin- 
ster Review. 

53. 

*  Those  writers  who  never  go  further  into  a  subject 
than  is  compatible  with  making  what  they  say  indis- 


i 

i 


jede  an- 
wiirde." 


0  Diouy- 

the  first 

Thrones 

rials,  the 

ion  upon 

-may  be 

fie  intel- 

ellects — 

imcnt  of 

or  ima- 

re  placed 

10  matter 

directed 

Grod,  and 

f  charity 
ilentless, 
features, 
Vestmin- 


I  subject 
ay  indis- 


WOMEN    INCLINED   TO    FALL   IN    LOVE. 


55 


putably  clear  to  man,  woman,  and  child,  may  be  the 
lights  of  this  age,  but  they  will  not  be  the  lights  of 
another.''^ 

*  It  is  not  always  necessary  that  truth  should 
take  a  bodily  form, — a  material  palpable  form.  It  is 
sometimes  better  that  it  should  dwell  around  us 
spiritually,  creating  harmony. — sounding  through  the 
air  like  the  solemn  sweet  tone  of  a  bell." 

54. 

Women  are  inclined  to  fall  in  love  with  priests 
and  physicia'u,  because  of  the  help  and  comfort  they 
deriv^e  from  >.'>\  in  perilous  moral  and  physical 
maladies.  Tney  believe  in  the  presence  of  real  pity, 
real  sympathy,  where  the  tone  and  look  of  each  have 
become  merely  habitual  and  conventional, — I  may  say 
professional.  On  the  other  hand,  women  are  inclined 
to  fall  in  love  with  criminal  and  miserable  men  out 
of  the  pity  which  in  our  sex  is  akin  to  love,  and  out 
of  the  power  of  bestowing  comfort  or  love.  "  Car  les 
femmes  ont  un  instinct  celeste  pour  le  malheur."  So, 
in  the  first  instance,  they  love  from  gratitude  or  faith ; 
in  the  last,  from  compassion  or  hope. 

55. 

"  Men  of  all  countries,"  says  Sir  James  Mack- 
intosh,  "  appear  to    be   more   alike  in  their    best 


56 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


"Hi! 


qualities  than  the  pride  of  civilization  would  be  will- 
ing to  allow."  ,, 

And  in  their  worst.  The  distinction  between 
savage  and  sivilized  humanity  lies  not  in  the  qualities^ 
but  the  habits.  '  -^ 

Coleridge  notices  ''  the  increase  in  modern  times 
of  vicious  associations  with  things  in  themselves  in- 
different," as  a  sign  of  unhealthiness  in  taste,  in  feel- 
ing, in  conscience. 

The  truth  of  this  remark  is  particularly  illustrated 
in  the  French  literature  of  the  last  century. 

"And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are 
made  apparent  to  the  understanding  also  after  long 
intervals  of  time.  A  fever,  a  mutilation,  a  cruel  dis- 
appointment, a  loss  of  wealth,  a  loss  of  friends,  seems 
at  the  moment  unpaid  loss  and  unpayable,  but  the 
sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial  force  that  under- 
lies all  facts.  The  death  of  a  dear  friend,  wife, 
brother,  lover,  which  seemed  nothing  but  privation, 
somewhat  later  assumes  the  aspect  of  a  guide  or 
genius ;  for  it  commonly  operates  a  revolution  in  our 
way  of  life,  terminates  an  epoch  of  infancy  or  youth 
which  was  waiting  to  be  closed,  breaks  up  a  wonted 
occupation,  or  a  household,  or  a  style  of  living,  and 
allows  the  formation  of  new  influences  that  prove  of 
the  first  importance  during  the  next  years." — Emerson. 


; 

i 


RELIGION. 


51 


56. 

Religion,  in  a  general  sense,  is  properly  the  com- 
prehension and  acknowledgment  of  an  unseen  spiritual 
power  and  the  soul's  allegiance  to  it ;  and  Christian- 
ity, in  its  particular  sense,  is  the  comprehension  and 
appreciation  of  the  personal  character  of  Christ,  and 
the  heart's  allegiance  to  that. 

Avarice  is  to  the  intellect  what  sensuality  is  to 
the  morals.  It  is  an  intellectual  form  of  sensuality, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  the  passion  for  the  acquisition,  the 
enjoyment  in  the  possession,  of  a  palpable,  tangible, 
selfish  pleasure ;  and  it  would  have  the  same  tendency 
to  unspiritualise,  to  degrade,  and  to  harden  the 
higher  faculties  that  a  course  of  grosser  sensualism 
would  have  to  corrupt  the  lower  faculties.  Both 
dull  the  edge  of  all  that  is  fine  and  tender  within  us. 


68. 

A  king  or  a  prince  becomes  by  accident  a  part 
of  history.  A  poet  or  an  artist  becomes  by  nature 
and  necessity  a  part  of  universal  humanity. 

As  what  we  call  Genius  arises  out  of  the  dispro- 
portionate power  and  size  of  a  certain  faculty,  so  the 
great  difficulty  lies  in  harmonising  with  it  the  rest  of 
the  character. 

3* 


Mu  I 


08 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


\ 


"  Though  it  burn  our  bouse  down,  who  does  not 
venerate  fire  ?  "  says  the  Hindoo  proverb. 

59. 

An  elegant  mind  informing  a  graceful  person  is 
like  a  spirit  lamp  in  an  alabaster  vase,  shedding 
round  its  own  softened  radiance  and  heightening  the 
beauty  of  its  medium.  An  elegant  mind  in  a  plain 
ungraceful  person  is  like  the  same  lamp  enclosed  in  a 
vase  of  bronze ;  we  may,  if  we  approach  near  enough, 
rejoice  in  its  influence,  though  we  may  not  behold  its 
radiance.  '  ■  ^  ■  ..^. 

Landor,  in  a  passage  I  was  reading  to-day,  speaks 
of  a  language  of  criticism,  in  which  qualities  should  be 
graduated  by  colours ;  "  as,  for  instance,  purple  might 
express  grandeur  and  majesty  of  thought;  scarlet, 
vigour  of  expression ;  pink,  liveliness ;  green,  elegant 
and  equable  composition,  and  so  on." 

Blue,  then,  might  express  contemplative  power? 
yellow,  wit  ?  violet,  tenderness  ?  and  so  on. 

60.  • 

I  QUOTED  to  A.  the  saying  of  a  sceptical  philo- 
sopher: "The  world  is  but  one  enormous  will, 
constantly  rushing  into  life." 

"  Is  that,"  she  responded  quickly,  "  another  new 
name  for  God?" 


I 


CHARACTER. 


59 


iooB  not 


lerson  is 
ihedding 
ning  the 

a  plain 
)sed  in  a 

enough, 
(hold  its 


y,  speaks 
ihould  be 
pie  might 
scarlet, 
,  elegant 

power  ? 


jal  philo- 

aS    WILL, 

ther  new 


61. 

A  DEATH-BED  repentance  has  become  proverbial 
for  its  frnitlessness,  and  a  death-bed  forgiveness  is 
equally  so.  They  who  wait  till  their  own  death-bed 
to  make  reparation,  or  till  their  adversary's  death- 
bed to  grant  absolution,  seem  to  me  much  upon  a 
par  in  regard  to  the  moral,  as  well  as  the  religious, 
failure. 

^/  A  CHARACTER  euducd  with  a  large,  vivacious, 
active  intellect  and  a  limited  range  of  sympathies, 
generally  remains  immature.  We  can  grow  wise  only 
through  the  experience  which  reaches  us  through  our 
sympathies  and  becomes  a  part  of  our  life.  All  other 
experience  may  be  gain,  but  it  remains  in  a  manner 
extraneous,  adds  to  our  possessions  without  adding 
to  our  strength,  and  sharpens  our  implements  without 
increasing  our  capacity  to  use  them./ 

Not  always  those  who  have  the  quickest,  keenest 
perception  of  character  are  the  best  to  deal  with  it, 
and  perhaps  for  that  very  reason.  Before  we  can  in- 
fluence or  deal  with  mind,  contemplation  must  be  lost 
in  sympathy,  observation  must  be  merged  in  love. 

63. 

Montaigne,  in  his  eloquent  tirade  against  melan- 
choly, observes  that  the  Italians  have  the  same  word, 


60 


ETHICAL   FRAOMENTO. 


\t 

If 


TVistezzttf  for  melancholy  and  for  malignity  or  wicked- 
ness. The  noun  TristOy  "  a  wretch,"  has  the  double 
sense  of  our  English  word  corresponding  with  the 
French  noun  miserable.  So  Judas  Iscariot  is  called 
quel  tristo.  Our  word  "  wretchedness  "  is  not,  how- 
ever, used  in  the  double  sense  of  tristezza. 

"  On  ne  considere  pas  assez  les  paroles  comme 
des  faits:"   that  was  well  said! 

Since  for  the  purpose  of  circulation  and  inter- 
communication we  are  obliged  to  coin  truth  into 
words,  we  should  be  careful  not  to  adulterate  the 
coin,  to  keep  it  pure,  and  up  to  the  original  standard 
of  significance  and  value,  that  it  may  be  reconvertiblc 
into  the  truth  it  represents. 

If  I  use  a  term  in  a  sense  wherein  I  know  it  is 
not  understood  by  the  person  I  address,  then  I  am 
guilty  of  using  words  (in  so  far  as  they  represent 
truth),  if  not  to  ensnare  intentionally,  yet  to  mislead 
consciously :  it  is  like  adulterating  coin. 

**  Common  people,"  said  Johnson,  "  do  not  accu- 
rately adapt  their  words  to  their  thoughts,  nor  their 
thoughts  to  the  objects ; " — that  is  to  say,  they  neither 
see  truly  nor  speak  truly — and  in  this  respect  chil- 
dren, half-educated  women,  and  ill-educated  men,  are 
the  "  common  people." 

It  is  one  of  the  most  serious  mistakes  in  Education 
that  we  are  not  sufficiently  careful  to  habituate  chil- 
dren to  the  accurate  use  of  words.     Accuracy  of 


wicked- 
double 
ith  the 
s  called 
:)t,  how- 

comnie 

d  inter- 
th  into 
ate  the 
tandard 
vertible 

ow  it  is 
Q  I  am 
jpresent 
mislead 


n  accu- 
or  their 
'  neither 
;ct  chil- 
nen,  are 

lucation 
ite  chil- 
racy  of 


WE   AF"    HAPPY. 


61 


language  is  one  of  the  bulwarks  of  truth.  If  we 
looked  into  the  matter  we  should  probably  find  that 
all  the  varieties  and  modifications  of  conscious  and 
unconscious  lying — as  exaggeration,  equivocation, 
evasion,  misrepresentation — might  be  traced  to  the 
early  misuse  of  words ;  therefore  the  contemptuous, 
careless  tone  in  which  people  say  sometimes :  *'  words — 
words — ^mere  words !  "  is  unthinking  and  unwise.  It 
tends  to  debase  the  value  of  that  which  is  the  only 
medium  of  the  inner  life  between  man  and  man : — 
"  Nous  ne  sommes  hommes,  et  nous  ne  tenons  les  uns 
aux  autres,  que  par  la  parole,"  said  Montaigne 

■'•   '••■    ■-'  '    ■  ''     '•'  "    ■  64.       -  " " 

"  We  are  happy,  good,  tranquil,  in  proportion  as 
our  inner  life  is  accessible  to  the  external  life,  and  in 
harmony  with  it.  When  we  become  dead  to  the 
moving  life  of  Nature  around  us,  to  the  changes  of 
day  and  night  (I  do  not  speak  here  of  the  sympathetic 
influences  of  our  fellow-creatures),  then  we  may  call 
ourselves  philosophical,  but  we  are  surely  either  bad 
or  mad."        ; 

*' Or  perhaps  only  sad  ?  " 

There  are  moments  in  the  life  of  every  con- 
templative being,  when  the  healing  power  of  Nature 
is  felt — even  as  Wordsworth  describes  it — felt  in  the 
blood,  in  every  pulse  along  the  veins.  In  such  mo- 
ments converse,  sympathy,  the  faces,  the  presence  of 


62 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


the  dearest,  oomo  so  near  to  us,  they  make  us  shrink ; 
books,  pictures,  music,  anything,  any  object  which  hps 
passed  through  the  medium  of  mind,  and  has  been  in 
a  manner  humanised,  is  felt  as  an  intrusive  reflection 
of  the  busy,  weary,  thought-worn  self  within  us.  Only 
Nature,  speaking  through  no  interpreter,  gently  steals 
us  out  of  our  humanity,  giving  us  a  foretaste  of  that 
more  diffused  disembodied  life  which  may  hereafter 
be  ours.  Beautiful  and  genial,  and  not  wholly  untrue, 
were  the  old  superstitions  which  placed  a  haunting 
divinity  in  every  grove,  and  heard  a  living  voice  re- 
sponsive in  every  murmuring  stream. 

This  present  Sunday  I  set  off  with  the  others  to 
walk  to  church,  but  it  was  late ;  I  could  not  keep  up 
with  the  pedestrians,  and,  not  to  delay  them,  turned 
back.  I  wandered  down  the  hill  path  to  the  river 
brink,  and  crossed  the  little  bridge  and  strolled  along, 
pensive  yet  with  no  definite  or  continuous  subject  of 
thought.  How  beautiful  it  was — how  tranquil !  not 
a  cloud  in  the  blue  sky,  not  a  breath  of  air !  ''  And 
where  the  dead  leaf  fell  there  did  it  rest ;  "  but  so 
still  it  was  that  scarce  a  single  leaf  did  flutter  or  fall, 
though  the  narrow  pathway  along  the  water's  edge 
was  already  encumbered  with  heaps  of  decaying  foliage. 
Every  where  around,  the  autumnal  tints  prevailed, 
except  in  one  sheltered  place  under  the  towering  clifi^ 
where  a  single. tree,  a  magnificent  lime,  still  flourished 
in  summer  luxuriance,  with  not  a  leaf  turned  or  shed. 


B\ 


NATURE    AND    ART. 


63 


■ 


I  stood  still  opposite,  looking  on  it  quietly  for  a  long 
time.  It  seemed  to  mo  a  happy  tree,  so  fresh  and 
fair  and  grand,  as  if  its  guardian  Dryad  would  not 
suffer  it  to  be  defaced.  Then  I  turned,  for  close  be- 
side me  sounded  the  soft,  interrupted,  half-suppressed 
warble  of  a  bird,  sitting  on  a  leafless  spray,  which 
seemed  to  bend  with  its  tiny  weight.  Some  lines 
which  I  used  to  love  in  my  childhood  came  into  my 
mind,  blending  softly  with  the  presence  around  me. 

**  The  little  bird  now  to  salute  the  mom 
Upon  the  naked  branches  sets  her  foot, 
The  leaves  still  lying  at  the  mossy  root, 
And  there  a  Billy  chtrmping  doth  keep, 
Aa  if  she  fain  would  sing,  yet  fain  would  weep ; 
Praising  fair  summer  that  too  soon  is  gone, 
Ajid  sad  for  winter  too  soon  coming  on  t " 

The  river,  where  I  stood,  taking  an  abrupt  turn, 
ran  wimpling  by ;  not  as  I  had  seen  it  but  a  few  days 
before, — rolling  tumultuously,  the  dead  leaves  whirl- 
ing in  its  eddies,  swollen  and  turbid  with  the  moun- 
tain torrents,  making  one  think  of  the  kelpies,  the 
,v  .cer  wraiths,  and  such  uncanny  things, — ^but  gentle, 
transparent,  and  flashing  in  the  low  sunlight ;  even 
the  barberries,  drooping  with  rich  crimson  clusters 
over  the  little  pools  near  the  bank,  and  reflected  in 
them  as  in  a  mirror,  I  remembeir  vividly  as  a  part  of 
the  exquisite  loveliness  which  seemed  to  melt  into 
my  life.    For  such  moments  we  are  grateful :  we  feel 
then  what  God  can  do  for  us,  and  what  man  can  not.— 
Carolside,  November  5thy  1843. 


04 


BTBIOAL  FRA0MINT8. 


"  In  the  early  ages  of  faith,  the  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity glided  into  and  gave  a  new  significance  to  the 
forms  of  heathenism.  It  was  not  the  forms  of  hea- 
thenism which  encrusted  and  overlaid  the  spirit  of 
Christianity,  for  in  that  case  the  spirit  would  have 
burst  through  such  extraneous  formulse,  and  set 
them  aside  at  once  and  for  ever." 


Questions.  In  the  execution  of  the  penal  statutes, 
can  the  individual  interest  of  the  convict  be  recon- 
ciled  with  the  interest  of  society  ?  or  must  the  good 
of  the  convict  and  the  good  of  society  be  considered 
as  inevitably  and  necessarily  opposed  ? — the  one  sac- 
rificed to  the  other,  and  at  the  best  only  a  compro- 
mise possible  ? 

This  is  a  question  pending  at  present,  and  will 
require  wise  heads  to  decide  it.  How  would  Christ 
have  decided  it  ?  When  he  set  the  poor  accused 
woman  free,  was  he  considering  the  good  of  the  cul- 
prit or  the  good  of  society  ?  and  how  far  are  we 
bound  to  follow  His  example  ?  If  He  consigned  the 
wicked  to  weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  was  it  for 
atonement  or  retribution,  punishment  or  penance  ? 
and  how  far  are  we  bound  to  follow  his  example  ?  ^ 


LIDERTT. 


•9. 


• 


I  MARKED  the  following  passage  in  Montaigno  as 
most  curiouRly  applicable  to  these  present  times,  in 
so  far  as  our  religious  contests  are  ooncemed ;  and  I 
leave  it  in  his  quaint  old  French. 

"  C'est  un  eflfct  de  la  Providence  divine  de  per- 
mettre  sa  saincto  Eglise  Hre  agit^e,  comme  nous  In 
voyons,  cle  tant  de  troubles  et  d'orages,  pour  fcveille.' 
par  ce  contraste  les  dmes  pies  et  les  ravoir  de  I'oisI* 
vete  et  du  sommeil  ou  les  avait  plongees  uno  si 
longue  tranquillite.  Si  nous  contrepaisons  la  pcrtd 
que  nous  avons  faite  par  le  nombre  de  ceux  c^ui  so 
sont  devoy^s,  au  gain  qui  nous  vient  par  nous  6ti'o 
remis  en  haleine,  ressuscite  notre  z6le  et  nos  forces  k 
I'occasion  de  ce  combat,  je  ne  sais  si  l'utilit6  ne  sur- 
monte  point  le  dommage." 

*'  They  (the  friends  of  Gassius)  were  divided  in 
opinion, — some  holding  that  servitude  was  the  az 
treme  of  evils,  and  others  that  tyranny  was  betvjr 
than  civil  war." 

Unhappy  that  nation,  wherever  it  may  b^  wheio 
the  question  is  yet  pending  between  s.i vitude  and 
civil  war !  such  a  nation  mi><i,ht  he  driven  to  solve 
the  problem  after  the  manner  of  Gassius — with  tihe 
dagger's  point. 

"  Surely,"  said  Moore,  "  it  is  wrong  for  the  lovers 


#0 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


i>lK 


!;! 


mw 


of  liberty  to  identify  the  principle  of  resistance  to 
power  with  such  an  odious  person  as  the  devil ! " 

■■■    11.  ' 

"  Where  the  question  is  of  a  geat  deal  of  good 
to  ensue  from  a  small  injustice,  men  must  pursue  the 
things  which  are  just  in  present,  and  leave  the  future 
to  Divine  Providence." 

This  so  simple  rule  of  right  is  seldom  attended  to 
as  a  rule  of  life  till  we  are  placed  in  some  strait  in 
which  it  is  forced  upon  us. 

72. 

A  woman's  patriotism  is  more  of  a  sentiment  than 
a  man's, — more  passionate :  it  is  only  an  extension 
of  the  domestic  affections,  and  with  her  la  patrie  is 
only  an  enlargement  of  home.  In  the  same  manner, 
a  woman's  idea  of  fame  is  always  a  more  extended 
sympathy,  and  is  much  more  of  a  presence  than  an 
anticipation.  To  her  the  voice  of  fame  is  only  the 
echo — fainter  and  more  distant — of  the  voice  of 
love. 

78. 

*■  La  doute  s'introduit  dans  I'dme  qui  r^ve,  la  foi 
descend  dans  I'dme  qui  soufifre." 

The  reverse  is  equally  true, — and  judging  from 
my  own  experience,  I  should  say  oftener  true. 


COLEHIDGE. TIECK. 


74. 


67 


"  La  curiosity  est  si  voisine  k  la  perfidie  qu'elle 
peut  enlaidir  les  plus  beaux  visages." 

-V 

75. 

When  I  told  Tieck  of  the  death  of  Coleridge  (I 
had  just  received  the  sad  but  not  unexpected  news  in 
a  letter  from  England),  he  exclaimed  with  emotion, 
''  A  great  spirit  has  passed  away  from  the  earth,  and 
has  left  no  adequate  memorial  of  its  greatness." 
Speaking  of  him  afterwards,  he  said,  "  Coleridge 
possessed  the  creative  and  inventive  spirit  of  poetry, 
not  the  productive;  he  thought  too  much  to  produce, — 
the  analytical  power  interfered  with  the  genius : 
Others  with  more  active  faculties  seized  and  worked 
out  his  magnificent  hints  and  ideas.  Walter  Scott 
and  Lord  Byron  borrowed  the  first  idea  of  the  form 
and  spirit  of  their  narrative  poems  from  Coleridge's 
'  Christabelle.' "  This  judgment  of  one  great  poet 
and  critic  passed  on  another  seemed  to  me  worth 
preserving. 

76. 

Coleridge  says,  "  In  politics  what  begins  in  fear 
usually  ends  in  folly." 

He  might  have  gone  farther,  and  added :  In  morals 
what  begins  in  fear  usually  ends  in  wickedness.  In 
religion  what  begins  in  fear  usually  ends  in  fanati- 


68 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


I 


cism.     Fear,  either  as  a  principle  or  a  motive,  is  the 
beginning  of  all  evil. 

In  another  place  he  says — , 

"  Talent  lying  in  the  understanding  is  often  in- 
herited ;  genius,  being  the  action  of  reason  and 
imagination,  rarely  or  never." 

There  seems  confusion  here,  for  genius  lies  not 
in  the  amount  of  intellect — it  is  a  quality  of  the 
intellect  apart  from  quantity.  And  the  distinction 
between  talent  and  genius  is  definite.  Talent  com- 
bines and  uses ;  genius  combines  and  creates. 

Op  Sara  Coleridge,  Mr.  Kenyon  said,  very  truly 
and  beautifully,  "that  like  her  father,  she  had 
the  controversial  intellect  without  the  controversial 
spirit.''^    .  ,, 

We  all  remember  the  famous  bon  mot  of  Talley- 
rand. When  seated  between  Madame  de  Stael  and 
Madame  B6camier,  and  pouring  forth  gallantry,  first 
at  the  feet  of  one  then  of  the  other,  Madame  de  Stael 
suddenly  asked  him  if  she  and  Madame  B^camier 
fell  into  the  river,  which  of  the  two  he  would  save 
first  1  "  Madame,"  replied  Talleyrand,  "  je  crois  que 
vous  pouvez  nager ! "  Now  we  will  match  this 
pretty  bon  mot  with  one  far  prettier,  and  founded  on 
it.  Prince  S.,  whom  I  knew  formerly,  was  one  day 
loitering  on  the  banks  of  the  Isar,  in  the  English 


I 


! 


TALLEYRAND. 


69 


i 


garden  at  Munich,  by  the  side  of  the  beautiful 
Madame  de  V.,  then  the  object  of  his  devoted  ad- 
miration. For  a  while  he  had  been  speiVmg  to  her 
of  his  mother,  for  whom,  vaurien  as  he  was,  he 
had  ever  shown  the  strongest  filial  love  and  respect. 
Afterwards,  as  they  wandered  on,  he  began  to  pour 
forth  his  soul  to  the  lady  of  his  love  with  all  the 
eloquence  of  passion.  Suddenly  she  turned  and  said 
to  him,  "  If  your  mother  and  myself  were  both  to 
fall  into  this  river,  whom  would  you  save  first  ?  " 
'•  My  mother  !  "  he  instantly  replied ;  and  then,  look- 
ing at  her  expressively,  immediately  added,  "  To 
save  you  first  would  be  as  if  I  were  to  save  myself 
first  !  " 

If  we  were  not  always  bringing  ourselves  into 
comparison  with  others,  we  should  know  them 
better. 

78. 

There  are  ways  of  governing  every  mind  which 
lies  within  the  circle  described  by  our  own;  the 
only  question  is,  whether  the  means  required  bo 
such  as  we  can  use  ?  and  if  so,  whether  we  shall 
think  it  right  to  do  so  ? 

You  think  I  do  not  know  you,  or  that  I  mistake 
you  utterly,  because  I  am  actuated  by  the  impulses 
of  my  own  nature,  rather  than  by  my  perception  of 
the  impulses  of  yours  ?    It  is  not  so.  , 


^ 


L'l 


in 


K 


|6> 


W  BTHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 

If  we  would  retain  our  own  consistency,  without 
which  there  is  no  moral  strength,  we  must  stand 
firm  upon  our  own  moral  life. 

Be  trae  unto  thyself ;  .  ., 

^^     And  it  shall  follow  aa  the  night  to  day; 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man." 

But  to  be  true  to  others  as  well  as  ourselves,  is 
not  merely  to  allow  to  them  the  same  independence, 
but  to  sympathise  with  it.  Unhappily  here  lies  the 
chief  difficulty.  There  are  brains  so  large  that  they 
unconsciously  swamp  all  individualities  which  come 
in  contact  or  too  near,  and  brains  so  small  that  they 
cannot  take  in  the  conception  of  any  other  individu- 
ality as  a  whole,  only  in  part  or  parts.  As  in 
Religion,  where  there  is  a  strong,  sincere,  definite 
faith,  there  is  generally  more  or  less  intolerance ;  so 
in  character,  where  there  is  strong  individuality, 
self-assurance,  and  defined  principles  of  action,  there 
is  usually  something  hard  and  intolerant  of  the  indi- 
viduality of  others.  In  some  characters  we  meet 
with,  toleration  is  a  principle  of  the  reason,  and 
intolerance  a  quality  of  the  mind,  and  then  the 
whole  being  strikes  a  discord. 

If  we  can  still  love  those  who  have  made  us 
suffer,  we  love  them  all  the  more.  It  is  as  if  the 
principle,  that  conflict  is  a  necessary  law  of  progress, 


FRENCH    EXPKES8I0NS. 


n 


were  applicable  even  to  love.  For  there  is  no  love 
like  that  which  has  roused  up  the  iutensest  feelings 
of  our  nature, — revealed  us  to  ourselves,  like  light- 
ning suddenly  disclosing  an  abyss, — yet  has  survived 
all  the  storm  and  tumult  of  such  passionate  discord 
and  all  the  terror  of  such  a  revelation. 

80. 

F.  HAS  much,  much  to  learn !  Through  power, 
through  passion,  through  feeling  we  do  much,  but 
only  through  observation,  reflection,  and  sympathy 
we  learn  much ;  hence  it  is  that  minds  highly  gifted 
often  remain  immature.  Artist  minds  especially,  so 
long  as  they  live  only  or  chiefly  for  their  art,  their 
faculties  bent  on  creating  or  representing,  remain 
immature  on  one  side — the  reasoning  and  reflecting 
side  of  the  character. 

81. 

Said  a  Frenchman  of  his  adversary,  "  II  se  croit 
sup^rieure  d  moi  de  toute  la  hauteur  de  sa  b^tise  !  " 
There  is  a  mingled  felicity,  politeness,  and  acrimony 
in  this  phrase  quite  untranslatable. 

It  is  a  pity  that  we  have  no  words  to  express  the 
French  distinction  between  rever  and  revasser.  The 
one  implies  meditation  on  a  definite  subject :  the 
other  the  abandonment  of  the  mind  to  vague  discus- 
Bion,  aimless  thoughts. 


n 


r 


12 


ETHICAL  FRAGMENTS. 


It  seems  to  me  that  the  conversation  of  the  first 
converser  in  the  world  would  tire  me,  pall  on  me  at 
last,  where  I  am  not  sure  of  the  sincerity.  Talk 
without  truth  is  the  hollow  brass ;  talk  without  love 
is  like  the  tinkling  cymbal,  and  where  it  does  not 
tinkle  it  gingles,  and  where  it  does  not  gingle,  it  jars. 


m 


83. 

There  are  few  things  more  striking,  more  inter- 
esting to  a  thoughtful  mind,  than  to  trace  through 
all  the  poetry,  literature,  and  art  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
that  broad  ever-present  distinction  between  the  prac- 
tical and  the  contemplative  life.  This  was,  no  doubt, 
suggested  and  kept  in  view  by  the  one  grand  division 
of  the  whole  social  community  into  those  who  were 
devoted  to  the  religious  profession  (an  immense  pro- 
portion of  both  sexes)  and  those  who  were  not.  All 
through  Dante,  all  through  the  productions  of  medi- 
aeval art,  we  find  this  pervading  idea ;  and  we  must 
understand  it  well  and  keep  it  in  mind,  or  we  shall 
never  be  able  to  apprehend  the  entire  beauty  and 
meaning  of  certain  religious  groups  in  sculpture  and 
painting,  and  the  significance  of  the  characters  intro- 
duced. Thus,  in  subjects  from  the  Old  Testament, 
Leah  always  represents  the  practical,  Eachel,  the 
contemplative  life.  In  the  New  Testament,  Martha 
and  Mary  figure  in  the  same  allegorical  sense ;   and 


ii 


]% 


PRACTICAL    AND    CONTEMPLATIVE  .LIFE. 


1Z 


he  first 
Q  me  at 
Talk 
)ut  love 
oes  not 
,  it  jars. 


e  inter- 
through 
ie  Ages, 
he  prac- 
0  doubt, 
division 
ho  were 
nse  pro- 
ot.     All 
jf  medi- 
we  must 
we  shall 
luty  and 
ture  and 
rs  intro- 
stament, 
hel,   the 
Martha 
se ;   and 


among  the  saints  we  always  find  St.  Catherine  and 
St.  Clara  patronising  the  religious  and  contemplative 
life,  while  St.  Barbara  and  St.  Ursula  preside  over 
the  military  or  secular  existence.  It  was  a  part,  and 
a  very  important  part,  of  that  beautiful  and  expressive 
symbolism  through  which  art  in  all  its  forms  spoke 
to  the  popular  mind. 

For  myself,  I  have  the  strongest  admiration  for 
the  practical,  but  the  strongest  sympathy  with  the 
contemplative  life.  I  bow  to  Leah  and  to  Martha, 
but  my  love  is  for  Bachel  and  for  Mary.  r 

84. 

Bettina  does  not  describe  nature,  she  informs  it 
with  her  own  life :  she  seems  to  live  in  the  elements, 
to  exist  in  the  fire,  the  air,  the  water,  like  a  sylph, 
a  gnome,  an  elf;  she  does  not  contemplate  nature, 
she  is  nature ;  she  is  like  the  bird  in  the  air,  the  fish 
in  the  sea,  the  squirrel  in  the  wood.  It  is  one  thing 
to  describe  nature,  and  quite  another  unconsciously 
so  to  inform  nature  with  a  portion  of  our  own  life. 

86. 

Joanna  Baillie  had  a  great  admiration  of  Mac- 
aulay's  Roman  Ballads.  "  But,"  said  some  one,  "  do 
you  really  account  them  as  poetry  ?  "  She  replied, 
"  They  are  poetry  if  the  sounds  of  the  trumpet  be 
music ! " 


^ 


I 


r«~" ' ' ! 


il>ni' 


MM 


t 


fi 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


86. 


All  my  own  experience  of  life  teaches  me  the 
contempt  of  cunning,  not  the  fear.  The  phrase  "  pro- 
found cunning  "  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  contradic- 
tion in  terms.  I  never  knew  a  cunning  mind  which 
was  not  either  shallow  or  on  some  point  diseased. 
People  dissemble  sometimes  who  yet  hate  dissem- 
bling, but  a  "  cunning  mind  "  emphatically  delights 
in  its  own  cunning,  and  is  the  ready  prey  of  cunning. 
That  "pleasure  in  deceiving  and  aptness  to  be  de- 
ceived" usually  go  together,  was  one   of  the  wise 

sayings  of  the  wisest  of  men. 

87. 

It  was  a  saying  of  Paracelsus,  that  "  Those  who 
would  understand  the  courses  of  the  heavens  above 
must  first  of  all  recognise  the  heaven  in  man*:" 
meaning,  I  suppose,  that  all  pursuit  of  knowledge 
which  is  not  accompanied  by  praise  of  God  and  love 
of  our  fellow- creatures  must  turn  to  bitterness, 
emptiness,  foolishness.  We  must  imagine  him  to 
have  come  to  this  conclusion  only  late  in  life. 

Browning,  in  that  wonderful  poem  of  Paracelsus, 
— a  poem  in  which  there  is  such  a  profound  far-see 
ing  philosophy,  set  forth  with  such  a  luxuriance  of 
illustration  and  imagery,  and  such  a  wealth  of  glori- 
ous eloquence,  that  I  know  nothing  to  be  compared 
with  it  since  Goethe  and  Wordsworth, — represents 


i 


PARACELSUS. 


76 


/ki 


me  the 
ise  "  pro- 
ontradio- 
ad  which 
diseased. 
J  dissem- 
f  delights 
'  cunning, 
to  be  de- 

the  -wise 


Chose  who 
rens  above 
in  man*:" 
knowledge 
I  and  love 
bitterness, 
le  him  to 
fe. 

*aracelsus, 
ad  far-see 
iiriance  of 
1  of  glori- 
compared 
■represents 


his  aspiring  philosopher  as  at  first  impelled  solely  by 
the  appetite  to  know.  He  asks  nothing  of  men,  ho 
despises  them ;  but  he  will  serve  them,  raise  them, 
after  a  sort  of  God-like  fashion,  independent  of  their 
sympathy,  scorning  their  applause,  using  them  like 
instruments,  cheating  them  like  children, — all  for 
their  good;  but  it  will  not  do.  In  Aprile,  "who 
would  love  infinitely,  and  be  beloved,"  is  figured  the 
type  of  the  poet-nature,  desiring  only  beauty,  resolv- 
ing all  into  beauty ;  while  in  Paracelsus  we  have  the 
type  of  the  reflecting,  the  inquiring  mind,  desiring 
only  knowledge,  resolving  all  into  knowledge,  asking 
nothing  more  to  crown  his  being.  And  both  find 
out  their  mistake  ;  both  come  to  feel  that  love  with- 
out knowledge  is  blind  and  weak,  and  knowledge 
without  love  barren  and  vain. 

"  I  too  have  sought  to  know  as  thon  to  love, 
Excluding  love  as  thou  rcfused'st  knowledge ;  , 

Still  thou  hast  beauty  and  I  power.    We  wake ! 
*  *  *  *  * 

Are  we  not  halves  of  one  dissever'd  world, 
Whom  this  strange  chance  unites  once  more  ?    Part  ? — ^Never  I 
Till  thou,  the  lover,  know,  and  I,  the  knower. 
Love— until  both  are  saved  1  •' 

After  all,  perhaps,  only  the  same  old  world-re- 
nowned myth  in  another  form  —  the  marriage  of 
Cupid  and  Psyche  ;  Love  and  Intelligence  long 
parted,  long-suflFering,  again  embracing,  and  lighted 
on  by  Beauty  to  an  immortal  union.  But  to  return 
to  our  poet.  Aprile,  exhausted  by  his  own  aimless, 
dazzling  visions,  expires  on  the  bosom  of  him  who 


m 


KTUIOAL    FRAGMEMS.  . 


I'' 


Is*," 

r 


knows ;  and  Paracelsus,  who  began  with  a  self-suffi- 
cing Boorn  of  his  kind,  dies  a  baffled  and  degraded 
man  in  the  arms  of  him  who  loves ; — ^yet  wiser  in  his 
fall  than  through  his  aspirations,  he  dies  trusting  in 
the  progress  of  humanity  so  long  as  humanity  is  con- 
tent to  be  human ;  to  love  as  well  as  to  know ; — to 
fear,  to  hope,  to  worship,  as  well  as  to  aspire. 

Lord  Bacon  says :  '^  I  like  a  plantation  (in  the 
sense  of  colony)  in  a  pure  soil ;  that  is,  where  people 
are  not  displanted  to  the  end  to  plant  in  others :  for 
else  it  is  rather  an  extirpation  than  a  plantation." 
(Bacon,  who  wrote  this,  counselled  to  James  I.  the 
plantation  of  Ulster  exactly  on  the  principle  he  has 
here  deprecated.)  ' ' 

He  adds,  ''  It  is  a  shameful  and  unblessed  thing 
to  take  the  scum  of  people,  and  wicked  condemned 
men,  to  be  the  people  with  whom  you  plant "  {i.  e. 
colonise).  And  it  is  only  now  that  our  politicians 
are  beginning  to  discover  and  act  upon  this  great 
moral  truth  and  obvious  fitness  of  things! — ^like 
Bacon,  adopting  practically,  and  from  mere  motives 
of  expediency,  a  principle  they  would  theoretically 
abjure ! 

Because  in  real  life  we  cannot,  or  do  not,  recon- 
cile the  high  theory  with  the  low  practice,  we  use  our 
wit  to  render  the  theory  ridiouloufi,  and  our  reason 


Mi  t      C 


jelfsuffi- 
legradcd 
er  in  his 
asting  in 
;y  is  con- 
ow ; — to 


in  (in  the 
sre  people 
ihers:  for 
antation." 
nes  I.  the 
le  he  has 

3sed  thing 
ondemned 
ant "  (i.  e. 
)oliticians 
his  great 
igs !— like 
e  motives 
Boretically 

not,  recon- 
TfQ  use  our 
our  reason 


MKN    AND    WOMEN.  *l*l 

to  reconcile  us  to  the  practice.     We  ought  to  do  just 
the  reverse.  .  •  .'    o  <    -^ 

Many  would  say,  if  they  spoke  the  truth,  that  it 
had  cost  them  a  life-long  effort  to  unlearn  what  they 
had  been  taught. 

For  as  the  eye  becomes  blinded  by  fashion  to 
positive  deformity,  so  through  social  conventionalism 
the  conscience  becomes  blinded  to  positive  immo- 
rality. 

It  is  fatal  in  any  mind  to  make  the  moral  stand- 
ard for  men  high  and  the  moral  standard  for  women 
low,  or  vice  versa.  This  has  appeared  to  me  the  very 
commonest  of  all  mistakes  in  men  and  women  who 
have  lived  much  in  the  world,  hui  fatal  nevertheless, 
and  in  three  ways;  first,  as  distorting  the  moral 
ideal,  so  far  as  it  exists  in  the  conscience ;  secondly, 
as  perplexing  the  bounds,  practically,  of  right  and 
wrong ;  thirdly,  as  being  at  variance  with  the  spirit 
and  principles  of  Christianity.  Admit  these  pre- 
mises, and  it  follows  inevitably  that  such  a  mistake 
is  fatal  in  the  last  degree,  as  disturbing  the  con- 
sistency and  the  elevation  of  the  character,  morally, 
practically,  religiously. 

Akin  to  this  mistake,  or  identical  with  it,  is  the 
belief  that  there  are  essential  masculine  and  femi- 
nine virtues  and  vices.  It  is  not,  in  fact,  the  quality 
itself,  but  the  modification  of  the  quality,  which  is 


'fk    ! 


78 


KTHIOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


masculino  or  feminine  ;  and  on  the  manner  or  degree 
in  which  these  are  balanced  and  combined  in  the  in- 
dividual, depends  the  perfection  of  that  individual 
character — its  approximation  to  that  of  Christ.  I 
firmly  believe  that  as  the  influences  of  religion  are 
extended,  and  as  civilization  advances,  those  qualities 
which  are  now  admired  as  essentially  feminine  will 
be  considered  as  essentially  humane  such  as  gentle- 
ness, purity,  the  more  unselfish  and  spiritual  sense  of 
duty,  and  the  dominance  of  the  affections  over  the 
passions.  This  is,  perhaps,  what  Buffon.  speaking  as 
a  naturalist,  meant,  when  he  said  that  with  the  pro- 
gress of  humanity,  "  Les  races  se  feminisent ;  "  at 
least  I  understand  the  phrase  in  this  sense. 

/  A  man  who  requires  from  his  own  sex  manly 
direct  truth,  and  laughs  at  the  cowardly  subterfuges 
and  small  arts  of  women  as  being  feminine ; — a  wo- 
man who  requires  from  her  own  sex  tenderness  and 
purity,  and  thinks  ruffianism  and  sensuality  pardona- 
ble in  a  man  as  being  masculine^ — these  have  repudi- 
ated the  Christian  standard  of  morals  which  Christ, 
in  his  own  person,  bequeathed  to  us — that  standard 
which  we  have  accepted  as  Christians — theoretically 
at  least — and  which  makes  no  distinction  between 
"  the  highest,  holiest  manhood,"  and  the  highest,  ho- 
liest womanhood,  n.  v 

I   might  illustrate   this  position  not  only  scrip- 
turally  but  philosophically,  by  quoting  the  axiom  of 


MEN    AND    WOMEN. 


79 


r  degree 
1  the  in< 
dividual 
irist.  I 
gion  are 
qualities 
line  will 
s  gentle- 
sense  of 
over  the 
mking  as 
the  pro- 
mi  ; "  at 


X  manly 
:)terfuges 
; — a  wo- 
ness  and 
pardona- 
e  repudi- 
i  Christ, 
standard 
)retically 
between 
jhest,  ho- 
lly scrip- 
axiom  of 


the  Greek  philosopher  Antisthenos,  the  disciple  of 
Socrates, — '•  The  virtue  of  the  man  and  the  woman 
is  the  same ;"  which  shows  a  perception  of  the  mo- 
ral truth,  a  sort  of  anticipation  of  the  Christian  doc- 
trine, even  in  the  Pagan  times.  But  I  prefer  an 
illustration  which  is  at  once  practical  and  poetical, 
and  plain  to  the  most  prejudiced  among  men  u/  wo- 
men. 

Every  reader  of  Wordsworth  will  recollect,  if  ho 
does  not  know  by  heart,  the  poem  entitled  "  The 
Happy  Warrior."  It  has  been  quoted  often  as  an 
epitome  of  every  manly,  soldierly  and  elevated  quali- 
ty. I  have  heard  it  applied  to  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington. Those  who  make  the  experiment  of  merely 
substituting  the  word  woman  for  the  word  ivarrior^ 
and  changing  the  feminine  for  the  masculine  pro- 
noun, will  find  that  it  reads  equally  well ;  that  al- 
most from  beginning  to  end  it  is  literally  as  applica- 
ble to  the  one  sex  as  to  the  other.     As  thus  : — 

CHAEACTER  OP  THE  IIAPPF  WOMAN. 

Who  Is  the  happy  woman  f    "Who  la  she 
That  every  teaman  born  should  wish  to  be  f 
It  is  the  generous  spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  her  childish  thought 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light. 
That  makes  the  path  before  her  always  bright ; 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
Bat  makes  Aer  moral  being  A«r  prime  care 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear  and  Sorrow,  miserable  train ! 


■'(111 


II 


m^ 


'■  4 


.A. 


80  ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 

''  '         Tnrns  that  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 
J..  ^  In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 

Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives ; 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Ifer  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate ; 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  puro 
As  tempted  more  ;  more  able  to  endure 
As  more  exposed  to  suiToring  and  distress ; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 
'Tis  she  whose  law  is  reason ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 
Whence  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best, 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
She  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  she  knows. 
Who,  if  eh«  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Bises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

Who  comprehends  her  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  sfate ; 

Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  mast  fall 

Like  shower^  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all ; 

Whose  powers  shed  round  her  in  the  common  strife 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influ'ence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 

But  who,  if  sfie  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  bf\s  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  lover ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  to  one  Inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  she  foresaw; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need ! 


In  all  these  fifty-six  lines  there  is  only  one  line 
which  cannot  be  feminised  in  its  significance, — that 


MEN    AND   WOMEN. 


m 


ne  line 
i, — that 


which  I  have  filled  up  with  asterisks,  and  whioh  is 
totally  at  variance  with  our  ideal  of  A  Happy  Wo- 
man.    It  is  the  line —  ~ 

*  "  And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire." 

No  woman  could  exist  happily  or  virtuously  in 
such  complete  independence  of  all  external  aflFections 
as  these  words  express.  "  Her  desire  is  to  her  hus- 
band,"— this  is  the  sort  of  subjection  prophesied  for 
the  daughters  of  Eve.  A  woman  doomed  to  exist 
without  this  earthly  rest  for  her  affections,  does  not 
'•  in  herself  possess  her  own  desire  ;  "  she  turns  to- 
wards God  ;  and  if  she  does  not  make  her  life  a  life 
of  worship,  she  makes  it  a  life  of  charity,  (which  in 
itself  is  worship,)  or  she  dies  a  spiritual  and  a  moral 
death.  Is  it  much  better  with  the  man  who  con- 
centrates his  aspirations  in  himself?  I  should  think 
not. 

Swift,  as  a  man  and  a  writer,  is  one  of  those 
who  had  least  sympathy  with  women;  and  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  the  exaggeration,  even  to 
morbidity,  of  the  coarse  and  the  cruel  in  his  char- 
acter, arose  from  this  want  of  sympathy;  but  his 
strong  sense  showed  him  the  one  great  moral  truth 
as  regards  the  two  sexes,  and  gave  him  the  courage 
to  avow  it. 

He  says,  "  I  am  ignorant  of  any  one  quality  that 
is  amiable  in  a  woman  which  is  not  equally  so  in  a 
man.     I  do  not  except  even  modesty  and  gentleness 


■■ 


82 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


i\ 
-ill, 

I 


^4 


of  nature ;  nor  do  I  know  one  vice  or  folly  which  is 
not  equally  detestable  in  both."  Then,  remarking 
that  cowardice  is  an  infirmity  generally  allowed  to 
women,  he  wonders  that  they  should  fancy  it  be- 
coming or  graceful,  or  think  it  worth  improving  by 
affectation,  particularly  as  it  is  generally  allied  to 
cruelty. 

Here  is  a  passage  from  one  of  Humboldt's  let- 
ters, which  I  have  seen  quoted  with  sympathy  and 
admiration,  as  applied  to  the  manly  character  only  : 

"  Masculine  independence  of  mind  I  hold  to  be 
in  reality  the  first  requisite  for  the  formation  of  a 
character  of  real  manly  worth.  The  man  who  suf- 
fers himself  to  be  deceived  and  carried  away  by  his 
own  weakness,  may  be  a  very  amiable  person  in  other 
respects,  but  cannot  be  called  a  good  man  ;  such  be- 
ings should  not  find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman, 
for  a  truly  beautiful  and  purely  feminine  nature  should 
be  attracted  only  by  what  is  highest  and  noblest  in 
the  character  of  man." 

Now  we  will  take  tnxd  bit  of  moral  philosophy, 
and,  without  the  slightest  alteration  of  the  context, 
apply  it  to  the  female  character. 

"  Feminine  independence  of  mind  I  hold  to  be 
in  reality  the  first  requisite  for  the  formation  of  a 
character  of  real  fSminine  worth.  The  woman  who 
allows  herself  to  be  deceived  and  carried  away  by  her 
own  weakness,  may  be  a  very  amiable  person  in  other 


rhich  is 
aarking 
>wed  to 
■  it  be- 
ving  by 
Hied  to 

it's  let- 
ihy  and 
•  only : 
i  to  be 
on  of  a 
/ho  suf- 
by  his 
in  other 
;uch  be- 
woman, 
3  should 
jlest  in 

osophy, 
context, 

i  to  be 
)n  of  a 
an  who 
J  by  her 
in  other 


MEN    AND    WOMEN. 


88 


respects,  but  cannot  be  called  a  good  woman  ;  such 
beings  should  not  find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  a  man, 
for  the  truly  beautiful  and  purely  manly  nature  should 
be  attracted  only  by  what  is  the  highest  and  noblest 
in  the  character  of  woman." 

After  readii^g  the  above  extracts,  does  it  not  seem 
clear,  that  by  the  exclusive  or  emphatic  use  of  cer- 
tain phrases  and  epithets,  as  more  applicable  to  one 
sex  than  to  the  other,  we  have  introduced  a  most  un- 
christian confusion  into  the  conscience,  and  have  pre- 
judiced it  early  against  the  acceptance  of  the  larger 
truth? 

It  might  seem,  that  where  we  reject  the  dis- 
tinction between  masculine  and  feminine  virtue,  one 
and  the  same  type  of  perfection  should  sufl&ce  for 
the  two  sexes ;  yet  it  is  clear  that  the  moment  we 
come  to  consider  the  personality,  the  same  type  will 
not  suffice :  and  it  is  worth  consideration  that  when 
we  place  before  us  the  highest  type  of  manhood,  as 
exemplified  in  Christ,  we  do  not  imagine  him  as  the 
father,  but  as  the  son ;  and  if  we  think  of  the  most 
perfect  type  of  womanhood,  we  never  can  exclude  the 
mother. 

Montaigne  deals  with  the  whole  question  in  his 
homely  straightforward  fashion  : — 

""  Je  dis  que  les  males  et  les  femelles  sont  jett^s 
en  mfime  moule  ;  sauf  I'institution  et  I'usage  la  dif- 


i 


it 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


P.( 


^  jiil 


V 


ference  n'y  est  paH  grande.  Platon  appelle  mdifF6r- 
emment  les  uns  et  les  autres  a  la  society  de  touts 
etudes,  exercises,  charges,  et  vocations  guerri^res  et 
paisibles  en  sa  r6publique,  et  le  philosophe  Antis- 
th^nes  dtait  toute  distinction  entre  leur  vertu  et  la 
n6tre.  II  est  bien  plus  ais6  d 'accuser  un  sexe  que 
d'excuser  I'autre :  c'est  ce  qu'on  dit,  '  le  fourgon  se 
moque  de  la  poele.'  " 

Not  that  I  agree  with  Plato, — rather  would  leave 
all  the  fighting,  military  and  political,  if  there  must 
be  fighting,  to  the  men. 

Among  the  absurdities  talked  about  women,  one 
hears,  perhaps,  such  an  aphorism  as  the  following, 
quoted  with  a  sort  of  ludicrous  complacency, — "  The 
woman's  strength  consists  in  her  weakness  !  "  as  if  it 
were  not  the  weakness  of  a  woman  which  makes  her 
in  her  violence  at  once  so  aggravating  and  so  con- 
temptible, in  her  dissimulation  at  once  so  shallow  and 
so  dangerous,  and  in  her  vengeance  at  once  so  cow- 
ardly and  so  cruel. 

I  SHOULD  not  say,  from  my  experience  of  my  own 
sex,  that  a  woman's  nature  is  flexible  and  impressi- 
ble, though  her  feelings  are.  I  know  very  few  in- 
stances of  a  very  inferior  man  ruling  the  mind  of  a 
superior  woman,  whereas  I  know  twenty — fifty — of  a 
very  inferior  woman  ruling  a  superior  man.  If  he 
love  her,  the  chances  are  that  she  will  in  the  end 
weaken  and  demoralise  him.     If  a  superior  woman 


J 


MEN    AND   WOMEN.  If 

marry  a  vulgar  or  inferior  man  he  makes  her  misera- 
ble, but  he  Eeldom  governs  her  mind,  or  vulgarises  her 
nature,  and  if  there  be  love  on  his  side  the  chances 
are  that  in  the  end  she  will  elevate  and  refine  him. 

The  most  dangerous  man  to  a  woman  is  a  man  of 
'aigh  intellectual  endowments  morally  perverted ;  for 
in  a  woman's  nature  there  is  such  a  necessity  to  ap- 
prove where  she  admires,  and  to  believe  where  she 
loves, — a  devotion  compounded  of  love  and  faith  is 
so  much  a  part  of  her  being, — that  while  the  instincts 
remain  true  ond  the  feelings  uncorrupted,  the  con- 
science and  the  will  may  both  be  led  far  astray. 
Thus  fell  "  our  general  mother," — type  of  her  sex, — 
overpowered,  rather  than  deceived,  by  the  colossal 
intellect, — half  serpent,  half  angelic. 


Coleridge  speaks,  and  with  a  just  indignant 
scorn,  of  those  who  consider  chastity  as  if  it  were  a 
thing — a  thing  which  might  be  lost  or  kept  by 
external  accident — a  thing  of  which  one  might  be 
robbed,  instead  of  a  state  of  being.  According  to 
law  and  custom,  the  chastity  of  Woman  is  as  the 
property  of  Man,  to  whom  she  is  accountable  for  it, 
rather  than  to  God  and  her  own  conscience.  What- 
ever people  may  say,  such  is  the  common,  the  social, 
the  legal  view  of  the  case.  It  is  a  remnant  of  Orien- 
tal barbarism.  It  tends  to  much  vice,  or,  at  the  best, 
to  a  low  standard  of  morality,  in  both  sexes.  This 
idea  of  property  in  the  womar   survives  still  in  our 


IP»  ETHICAL   FRAQMENTS. 

present  social  state,  particularly  amoDg  the  lower 
orders,  and  is  one  cause  of  the  ill  treatment  of  wives. 
All  those  who  are  particularly  acquainted  with  the 
manners  and  condition  of  the  people  will  testify  to 
this ;  namely,  that  when  a  child  or  any  weaker  indi- 
vidual is  ill  treated,  those  standing  by  will  interfere 
and  protect  the  victim;  but  if  the  sufferer  be  the 
wife  of  the  oppressor,  it  is  a  point  of  etiquette  to 
look  on,  to  take  no  part  in  the  fray,  and  to  leave  the 
brute  man  to  do  what  he  likes  "with  hin  own." 
Even  the  victim  herself,  if  she  be  not  pummelled  to 
death,  frequently  deprecates  such  an  interference 
with  the  dignity  and  the  rights  of  her  owner.  Like 
the  poor  woman  in  the  "M6decin  malgr6  lui:" — 
"  Voyez  un  peu  cet  impertinent  qui  veut  emp6cher 
les  maris  de  battre  leurs  femmes ! — et  si  je  veux  qu'il 
me  batte,  moi  1 " — and  so  ends  by  giving  her  defender 
a  box  on  the  ear. 


ii'' 


"  Au  milieu  de  tons  les  obstacles  que  la  nature  et 
la  soci6t6  ont  semes  sur  les  pas  de  la  femme,  la  scale 
condition  de  repos  pour  elle  est  de  s'entourer  de 
barrieres  que  les  passions  ne  puissent  franchir;  in- 
capable de  s'approprier  I'existence,  elle  est  toujours 
semblable  a  la  Chinoise  dont  les  pieds  ont  6te  mutiles 
et  pour  laquelie  toute  liberte  est  un  leurre,  toute 
espace  ouverte  une  cause  de  chute.  En  attendant 
que  I'education  ait  donn6  aux  femmes  leur  veritable 
place,  malhpur  a  celles  qui  brisent  les  lisses  accou- 


iif  I 


y| 


MEN    AND    WOMEN. 


87 


tamees !  pour  elles  I'independance  ne  sera,  comme  la 
gloire,  qu'un  deuil  eclatant  du  bonheur ! " — B.  Con- 
stant,    r 

This  also  is  one  of  those  common-places  of  well- 
sounding  eloquence,  in  which  a  fallacy  is  so  wrapt 
up  in  words  we  have  to  dig  it  out.  If  this  be  true, 
it  is  true  only  so  long  as  you  compress  the  feet  and 
compress  the  intellect, — no  longer. 

Here  is  another : — 

"  L'exp6rience  lui  avait  appris  que  quel  que  fut 
leur  dge,  ou  leur  caractere,  toutes  les  femmes  vivaient 
avec  le  m6me  rfive,  et  qu'elles  avaient  toutes  au 
fond  du  coeur  un  roman  commence  dont  elles  atten- 
daient  jusqu'4  la  mort  le  heros,  corame  les  juifs 
attendent  le  Messie." 

This  "  roman  commence,"  (et  qui  ne  finit  jamais), 
is  true  as  regards  women  who  are  idle,  and  who  have 
not  replaced  dreams  by  duties.  And  what  are  the 
"  barrieres  "  which  passion  cannot  overleap,  from  the 
moment  it  has  subjugated  the  will  ?  How  fine,  how 
true  that  scene  in  Calderon's  "  Magico  Prodigioso," 
where  Justina  conquers  the  fiend  only  by  not  cofi- 
senting  to  ill ! 

"This  agony 

Of  passion  which  afflicts  my  heart  and  soul 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm ; 
The  will  is  firm." 


And  the  baflBed  demon  shrinks  back, — 


"  Woman,  thou  hast  subdued  me 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued  1 " 


68 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


■  m 


A  FRIEND  of  mine  was  once  using  some  mincing 
elegancies  of  language  to  describe  a  high  degree  of 
moral  turpitude,  when  a  man  near  her  interposed, 
with  stern  sarcasm,  "  Speak  out !  Give  things  their 
proper  names !  Half  words  are  the  perdition  of  wo- 
men!^^        ' 

"  I  OBSERVE,"  said  Sydney  Smith,  "  that  gene- 
rally about  the  age  of  forty,  women  get  tired  of 
being  virtuous  and  men  of  being  honest."  This  was 
said  and  received  with  a  laugh  as  one  of  his  good 
things ;  but,  like  many  of  his  good  things,  how  dread- 
fully true !  And  why  ?  because,  generally,  educa- 
tion has  made  the  virtue  of  the  woman  and  the 
honesty  of  the  man  a  matter  of  external  opinion,  not 
a  law  of  the  inward  life. 

Dante,  in  his  lowest  hell,  has  placed  those  who 
have  betrayed  women ;  and  in  the  lowest  deep  of  the 
lowest  deep  those  who  have  betrayed  trust. 

Inveterate  sensuality,  which  has  the  effect  of 
utterly  stupifying  and  brutifying  lower  minds,  gives 
to  natures  more  sensitively  or  more  powerfully  or- 
ganised a  horrible  dash  of  ferocity.  For  there  is 
an  awful  relation  between  animal  blood-thirstiness 
and  the  pr oneness  to  sensuality,  and  in  some  sensual- 
ists a  sort  of  feline  propensity  to  torment  and  '  cer- 
ate the  prey  they  have  not  the  appetite  to  devour. 


MEN    AND    WOMEN.  Wf 

¥*  "  La  Chevalerie  faisait  une  tentative  qui  n'a 
jamais  reussi,  quoique  souvent  essay^e ;  la  tentative 
de  se  servir  des  passions  huraaines,  et  particulit^re- 
ment  de  I'amour  pour  conduire  I'homme  a  la  vertu. 
Dans  cette  route  rhomme  s'arrfete  toujours  en  che- 
min.  L'amour  inspire  beaucoup  de  bons  sentiments 
— le  courage,  le  devouement,  le  sacrifice  des  biens  et 
de  la  vie ;  mais  il  ne  se  sacrifie  pas  lui-mdme,  et  c'est 
la  que  la  faiblcsse  humaine  rcprend  scs  droits." — St. 
Marc-Girardin. 

I  am  not  sure  that  tbis  well-sounding  remark  is 
true — or.  if  true,  it  is  true  of  the  mere  passion,  not 
of  love  in  its  highest  phase,  which  is  self-sacrificing, 
which  has  its  essence  in  the  capability  of  self-sacrifice. 

"  Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  cliiefly  for  this  end; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven, 
That  «eZ/might  bo  annull'd." 


In  every  mind  where  there  is  a  strong  tendency 
to  fear,  there  is  a  strong  capacity  to  hate.  Those 
who  dwell  in  fear  dwell  next  door  to  hate;  and  I 
think  it  is  the  cowardice  of  women  which  makes 
them  such  intense  haters. 

Our  present  social  opinion  says  to  the  man, 
"  You  may  be  a  vulgar  brutal  sensualist,  and  use  the 
basest  means  to  attain  the  basest  ends ;  but  so  long 
as  you  do  not  oflFend  against  conventional  good  man- 


h      'I 


IP  ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 

ners  you  shall  be  held  blameless."  And  to  the 
woman  it  says,  "  You  shall  be  guilty  of  nothing  but 
of  yielding  to  the  softest  impulses  of  tenderness,  of 
relenting  pity ;  but  if  you  cannot  add  hypocrisy  you 
shall  bo  punished  as  the  most  desperate  criminal." 

"  It  is  worthy  of  notice  that  the  external  expres- 
sions appropriated  to  certain  feelings  undergo  change 
at  di£ferent  periods  of  life  and  in  different  constitu- 
tions. The  child  cries  and  sobs  from  fear  or  pain, 
the  adult  more  generally  from  sudden  grief  or  warm 
afiFection,  or  sympathy  with  the  feeling  of  others."— 
Dr.  Holland. 

Those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  observe  the 
ways  of  children  will  doubt  the  accuracy  of  this 
remark,  though  from  the  high  authority  of  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  physiologists  of  our  time. 
Children  cry  from  grief,  and  from  sympathy  with 
grief,  at  a  very  early  age.  I  have  seen  an  infant  in 
its  mother's  arms,  before  it  could  speak,  begin  to 
whimper  and  cry  when  it  looked  up  in  her  face, 
which  was  disturbed  and  bathed  with  tears ;  and  that 
has  always  appeared  to  me  an  exquisite  touch  of 
most  truthful  nature  in  Wordsworth's  description  of 
the  desolation  of  Margaret : — 

"  Her  littie  child 
Had  ft-om  its  mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief,         % 
And  Btghed  amid  its  playthings." 


n 


LETTERS. 


89. 


01 


"  Letters,"  said  Sir  James  Mackiutosh,  "  must 
not  be  on  a  subject.  Lady  Mary  Wortley's  letters 
on  her  journey  to  Constantinople  are  an  admirable 
book  of  travels,  but  they  are  not  letters.  A  meeting 
to  discuss  a  question  of  science  is  not  conversation, 
nor  are  papers  written  to  another  to  inform  or  dis- 
cuss, letters.  Conversation  is  relaxation,  not  busi- 
ness, and  must  never  appear  to  be  occupation ; — nor 
must  letters." 

"  A  masculine  character  may  be  a  defect  in  a 
female,  but  a  masculine  genius  is  still  a  praise  to  a 
writer  of  whatever  sex.  The  feminine  graces  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  genius  arc  exquisitely  charm- 
ing, but  the  philosophy  and  eloquence  of  Madame  de 
Stael  are  above  the  distinctions  of  sex." 

90. 

Of  the  wars  between  Napoleon  and  the  Holy 
Alliance,  Madame  de  S.tael  once  said  with  most  ad- 
mirable and  prophetic  sense : — "  It  is  a  contest  be- 
tween a  man  who  is  the  enemy  of  liberty,  and  a 
system  which  is  equally  its  enemy."  But  it  is  easier 
to  get  rid  of  a  man  than  of  a  system :  witness  the 
Russians,  who  assassinate  their  czars  one  after  an- 
other, but  cannot  get  rid  of  their  system. 


^^■k^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.0     ^12*1 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


IL25  IIIIII.4   III  1.6 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


m 


ETHICAL   7RAOMBNTB. 


91. 

The  Empress  Elizabeth  of  Russia  during  the  war 
with  Sweden  commanded  the  old  Hetman  of  the  Cos- 
sacks to  come  to  court  on  his  way  to  Finland.  "  If 
the  Emperor,  your  father,"  said  the  Hetman,  "  had 
taken  my  advice,  your  Majesty  would  not  now  have 
been  annoyed  by  the  Swedes."  "What  was  your 
advice?"  asked  the  Empress.  "To  put  all  the 
nobility  to  death,  and  transplant  the  people  into 
Russia."  "But  that,"  said  the  Empress,  "would 
have  been  cruel ! "  "I  do  not  see  that,"  he  replied 
quietly ;  "  they  are  all  dead  now,  and  they  would 
only  have  been  dead  if  my  advice  had  been  taken.'' 

Something  strangely  comprehensive  and  unan* 
swerable  in  this  barbarian  logic  ! 

92. 

It  was  the  Abb^  Boileau  who  said  of  the  Jesuits, 
that  they  had  lengthened  the  Creed  and  shortened  the 
Decalogue.  The  same  witty  ecclesiastic  being  asked 
why  he  always  wrote  in  Latin,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  answered  gravely,  "  Why,  for  fear  the  bishops 
should  read  me ! " 

93. 
When  Talleyrand  once  visited  a  certain  reprobate 
friend  of  his,  who  was  ill  of  cholera,  the  patient  ex- 
claimed in  hi^  agony,  "Je  sens  les  tourmens  do 
lenferl"        '  . 


D^A. 


»8 


» 


J)6jh.  ?  "  said  Talleyrand. 

Maeh  in  a  word !  I  remember  seeing  a  pretty 
French  vaudeville  wherein  a  lady  is  by  some  accident 
or  contrivance  shut  up  perforce  with  a  lover  she  has 
rejected.  She  frets  at  the  contretemps.  He  makes 
use  of  the  occasion  to  plead  his  cause.  The  cruel  fair 
one  will  not  relent.  Still  he  pleads — still  she  turns 
away.     At  length  they  are  interrupted. 

"  D6j^  ! ''  exclaims  the  lady,  in  an  accent  we  may 
suppose  to  be  very  different  from  that  of  Talleyrand ; 
and  on  the  intonation  of  this  one  word,  pronounced 
as  only  an  accomplished  French  actress  could  pro- 
nounce it,  depends  the  denouement  of  the  piece. 


04. 

Louis  XYI.  sent  a  distinguished  physician  over 
to  England  to  inquire  into  the  management  of  our 
hospitals.  He  praised  them  much,  but  added, ''  II  y 
manque  deux  choses  ;  nos  cures  et  nos  hospitalidres ;  " 
that  is,  he  felt  the  want  of  the  religious  element  in 
the  official  and  medical  treatment  of  the  sick.  A 
want  which,  I  think,  is  felt  at  present  and  will  be 
supplied. 

^  95. 

Those  who  have  the  largest  horizon  of  thought, 
the  most  extended  vision  in  regard  to  the  relation  of 
things,  are  not  remarkable  for  self-reliance  and  ready 
judgment.     A  man  who  sees  limitedly  and  clearly,  is 


': 


94 


ETHICAL  FRA0MBNT8. 


more  sure  of  himself,  and  more  direct  in  his  dealings 
with  circumstances  and  with  others,  than  a  man  whose 
many-sided  capacity  embraces  an  immense  extent  of 
objects  and  obfectionSy — just  as,  they  say,  a  horse  with 
blinkers  more  surely  chooses  his  path,  and  is  less 
likely  to  shy. 

96. 

What  we  truly  and  earnestly  aspire  to  be,  that  in 
some  sense  we  are.  The  mere  aspiration,  by  chang- 
ing the  frame  of  the  mind,  for  the  moment  realises 
itself  , 

97. 

There  are  no  such  self-deceivers  as  those  who 
think  they  reason  when  they  only  feel. 

98. 
There  are  moments  when  the  liberty  of  the  inner 
life,  opposed  to  the  trammels  of  the  outer,  becomes 
too  oppressive :  moments  when  we  wish  that  our 
mental  horizon  were  less  extended,  thought  less  free ; 
when  we  long  to.  put  the  discursive  soul  into  a  narrow 
path  like  a  railway,  and  force  it  to  run  on  in  a  straight 
line  to  some  determined  goal. 


i 


If  the  deepest  and  best  a£fections  which  God  has 
given  us  sometimes  brood  over  the  heart  like  doves 
of  peace, — they  sometimes  suck  out  our  life-blood 
like  vampires.  .  \      *; ' 


GOOb   QUAUTIB8. 


u 


loa 

To  a  Frenchman  the  words  that  express  thingB 
seem  often  to  suffice  for  the  things  themselves,  and 
he  pronounces  the  words,  amour ^  grdce^  iensibilite^ 
as  if  with  a  relish  in  his  mouth — as  if  he  tasted  them 
— ^as  if  he  possessed  them. 


101. 

There  are  many  good  qualities,  and  valuable  ones 
too,  which  hardly  deserve  the  name  of  virtues.  The 
word  Virtue  was  synonymous  in  the  old  time  with 
valour,  and  seems  to  imply  contest ;  not  merely  pas- 
sive goodness,  but  active  resistance  to  evil.  I  wonder 
sometimes  why  it  is  that  we  so  continually  hear  the 
phrase,  "  a  yirtuou )  woman,"  and  scarcely  ever  that 
of  a  "  virtuous  man,"  except  in  poetry  or  from  the 
pulpit. 

102. 

A  LIE,  though  it  be  killed  and  dead,  can  sting 
sometimes, — like  a  dead  wasp. 


103. 

"  On  me  dit  toute  la  journee  dans  le  monde,  telle 
opinion,  telle  id6e,  sont  regues.  On  ne  sait  done  pas 
qu'en  fait  d'opinion  et  d'idees  j'aime  beaucoup  mieux 
les  choses  qui  sont  rejett^es  que  celles  qui  sont 
re9ues?" 


96 


i    KTHIOAL  FRAGMENTS. 


104. 

"  Sense  can  support  herself  handsomely  in  most 
countries  on  some  eighteenpence  a  day,  but  for  phan- 
tasy, planets  and  solar  systems  will  not  suffice."  And 
thence  do  you  infer  the  superiority  of  sense  over 
phantasy?  Shallow  reasoning!  God  who  made  the 
soul  of  man  of  sufficient  capacity  to  embrace  whole 
worlds  and  systems  of  worlds,  gave  us  thereby  a  fore- 
taste of  our  immortality. 


105. 

"  Faith  in  the  hereafter  is  as  necessary  for  the 
intellectual  as  the  moral  character,  and  to  the  man  of 
letters  as  well  as  to  the  Christian,  the  present  forms 
but  the  slightest  portion  of  his  existence." — Southey. 

Goethe  did  not  think  so.  "  Genutzt  dem  Augen- 
blick,"  "  Use  the  present,"  was  his  favourite  maxim ; 
and  always  this  notion  of  sacrificing  or  slighting  the 
present  seems  to  me  a  great  mistake.  It  ought  to  be 
the  most  important  part  of  our  existence,  as  it  is  the 
only  part  of  it  over  which  we  have  power.  It  is  in 
the  present  only  that  we  absolve  the  past  and  lay  the 
foundation  for  the  future.  '^      ., 


a 
a 
I 


G 

F 
r 


S%.u 


106. 


*'  Je  allseitigen,  je  individueller,"  is  a  beautiful 
significant  phrase,  quite  untranslateable,  used,  I  think, 
by  Bahel  (Madame  Yarnhagen).     It  means  that  the 


t 
a 


.f 


FACTS. — MORAL  8TMPATHIES. 


97 


in  most 
tr  phan- 
'  And 
96  over 
Eide  the 
3  whole 
J  a  fore- 


I 

\ 


for  the 

)  man  of 

it  forms 

^uthey. 

Angen- 

maxim ; 

ling  the 

ht  to  be 

t  is  the 

It  is  in 

lay  the 


eautiful 
I  think, 
that  the 


more  the  mind  can  multiply  on  every  side  its  capa- 
cities of  thinking  and  feeling,  the  more  individual,  the 
more  original,  that  mind  becomes. 

107. 

"  I  WONDER,"  said  c,  *'  that  facts  should  be  called 
stubborn  things."  I  wonder,  too,  seeing  you  can 
always  oppose  a  fact  with  another  fact,  and  that 
nothing  is  so  easy  as  to  twist,  pervert,  and  argue  or 
misrepresent  a  fact  into  twenty  different  forms.  ''  II 
u'y  a  rien  qui  s^arrange  aussi  facilement  que  les 
faits," — Nothing  so  tractable  as  facts, — said  Benjamin 
Constant.  True ;  so  long  as  facts  are  only  material, — 
or  as  one  should  say,  mere  matter  of  fact, — you  can 
modify  them  to  a  purpose,  turn  them  upside  down 
and  inside  out ;  but  once  vivify  a  fact  with  a  feeling, 
and  it  stands  up  before  us  a  living  and  a  yery  stub- 
born thing. 

108.  ^.■",,       '     _,  ;    ""      ,,    '    :- 

Every  human  being  is  born  to  influence  some 
other  human  being ;  or  many,  or  all  human  beings,  in 
proportion  to  the  extent  and  power  of  the  sympathies, 
rather  than  of  the  intellect. 

It  was  said,  and  very  beautifully  said,  that  "  one 
man's  wit  becomes  all  men's  wisdom."  Even  more 
true  is  it  that  one  man's  virtue  becomes  a  standard 
which  raises  our  anticipation  of  possible  goodness  in 
all  men.  * 

5 


08 


ETfilOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


109. 

It  is  curious  that  the  memory,  most  retentive  of 
images,  should  yet  be  much  more  reteutive  of  feelings 
than  of  facts :  for  instance,  we  remember  with  such 
intense  vividness  a  period  of  suffering,  that  it  seems 
even  to  renew  itself  through  the  medium  of  thought ; 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  we  perhaps  find  difficulty  in  re< 
calling,  with  any  distinctness,  the  causes  of  that  pain. 


•?\:r  •    :. 


110. 


"  Truth  has  never  manifested  itself  to  me  in  such 
a  broad  stream  of  light  as  seems  to  be  poured  upon 
some  minds.  Truth  has  appeared  to  my  mental  eye 
like  a  vivid,  yet  small  and  trembling  star  in  a  storm, 
now  appearing  for  a  moment  with  a  beauty  that  en- 
raptured, now  lost  in  such  clouds,  as,  had  I  less  faith, 
might  make  me  suspect  that  the  previous  clear  sight 
had  been  a  delusion." — Blanco  White. 

Very  exquisite,  in  the  aptness  as  well  as  poetry  of 
the  comparison !  Some  walk  by  daylight,  some  walk 
by  starlight.  Those  who  see  the  sun  do  not  see  the 
stars  ;  thoso  who  see  the  stars  do  not  see  the  sun.  ; 

He  says  in  another  place  : — 

'  I  am  averse  to  too  much  activity  of  the  imagi- 
nation on  the  future  life.  I  hope  to  die  full  of  con- 
fidence that  no  evil  awaits  me ;  but  any  picture  of  a 
future  life  distresses  me.    I  feel  as  if  an  eternity  of 


•^■•■'f 


^■^^■f^ 


OARLTLB. 


mtive  of 
:  feelings 
rith  such 
it  seems 
thought ; 
Ity  in  re- 
hat  pain. 

[6  in  such 
ired  upon 
ental  eye 
I  a  storm, 
'  that  en- 
ess  faith, 
ear  sight 

poetry  of 
ome  walk 
t  see  the 
le  sun.  ■ 

le  imagi- 
11  of  con- 
jture  of  a 
«mity  of 


existence  were  already  an  insupportable  burden  on 
my  soul." 

How  characteristic  of  that  lassitude  of  the  soul 
and  sickness  of  the  heart  which  "  asks  not  happiness, 
but  longs  for  rest ! " 

111. 

"  Those  are  the  worst  of  suicides  who  voluntarily 
and  prepensely  stab  or  suffocate  their  fame  when  God 
hath  commanded  them  to  stand  on  high  for  an 
example." 

112. 

Carlyle  thus  apostrophised  a  celebrated  orator, 
who  abused  his  gift  of  eloquence  to  insincere  purposes 
of  vanity,  self-interest,  and  expediency : — "  You  blas- 
phemous scoundrel !  God  gave  you  that  gifted  tongue 
of  yours,  and  set  it  between  your  teeth,  to  make 
known  your  true  meaning  to  us,  not  to  be  rattled  like 
a  muffin-man's  bell ! " 

lis. 

'  I  THINK,  with  Carlyle,  that  a  lie  should  be 
trampled  on  and  extinguished  wherever  found.  I  am 
for  fumigating  the  atmosphere  When  I  suspect  that 
falsehood,  like  pestilence,  breathes  around  me.  A. 
thinks  this  is  too  young  a  feeling,  and  that  as  the 
truth  is  sure  to  conquer  in  the  end,  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  fight  every  separate  lie,  or  fling  a  torch  into 
every  infected  hole.     Perhaps  not,  so  far  as  we  are 


100 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


ourselyes  concerned ;  but  we  should  think  of  others. 
While  secure  in  our  own  antidote,  or  wise  in  our  own 
caution,  we  should  not  leave  the  miasma  to  poison 
the  healthful,  or  the  briars  to  entangle  the  unwary. 
There  is  no  occasion  perhaps  for  Truth  to  sally  forth 
like  a  knight'Crrant  tilting  at  every  vizor,  but  neither 
should  she  sit  self  assured  in  her  tower  of  strength, 
leaving  pitfalls  outside  her  gate  for  the  blind  to  fall 
into. 


114. 

"  There  is  a  way  to  separate  memory  from 
imagination — we  may  narrate  without  painting.  I 
am  convinced  that  the  mind  can  employ  certain  in- 
distinct signs  to  represent  even  its  most  vivid  impres- 
sions ;  that  instead  of  picture  writing,  it  can  use 
something  like  algebraic  symbols:  such  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  soul  when  the  paroxysm  of  pain  has 
passed,  and  the  wounds  it  recei\«d  formerly  are 
skinned  over,  not  healed: — it  is  a  language  very 
opposite  to  that  used  by  the  poet  and  the  novel- 
writer." — Blanco  White. 

True ;  but  a  language  in  which  the  soul  can  con- 
verse only  with  itself ;  or  else  a  language  more  con- 
ventional than  words,  and  like  paper  as  a  tender  for 
gold,  more  capable  of  being  defaced  and  falsified. 
There  is  a  proverb  we  have  heard  quoted :  "  Speech 
is  silver,  silence  is  golden."  But  better  is  the  silver 
diffused  than  the  talent  of  gold  buried. 


i 

1-6 


others, 
iir  own 
poison 
nwary. 
y  forth 
neither 
rength, 
to  fall 


\ 
y  from 

ing.     I 

tain  in- 

impres- 

lan  use 

he  lan- 

ain  has 

rly  are 

je  very 

novel- 

an  con- 
re  con- 
der  for 
eilsified. 
Speech 
e  silver 


SOCIAL   DI8TIN0TXOM8. 


116. 


101 


However  distinguished  and  gifted,  mentally  and 
morally,  we  find  that  in  conduct  and  in  our  external 
relations  with  society  there  is  ever  a  levelling  in- 
fluence at  work.  Seldom  in  our  relations  with  the 
world,  and  in  the  ordinary  commerce  of  life,  are  the 
best  and  highest  within  us  brought  forth ;  for  the 
whole  system  of  social  intercourse  is  levelling.  As 
it  is  said  that  law  knows  no  distinction  of  persons  but 
that  which  it  has  itself  instituted ;  so  of  society  it 
may  be  said,  that  it  allows  of  no  distinction  but  those 
which  it  can  recognise — external  distinctions. 

We  hear  it  said  that  general  society — the  worlds 
as  it  is  called — and  a  public  school,  are  excellent 
educators ;  because  in  one  the  man,  in  the  other  the 
boy,  ''  finds,  as  the  phrase  is,  his  own  level."  He 
does  not ;  he  finds  the  level  of  others.  That  may  be 
good  for  those  below  mediocrity,  but  for  those  above 
it  bad :  and  it  is  for  those  we  should  most  care,  for  if 
once  brought  down  in  early  life  by  the  levelling  in- 
fluence of  numbers,  they  seldom  rise  again,  or  only 
partially.  Nothing  so  dangerous  as  to  be  perpetually 
measuring  ourselves  against  what  is  beneath  us,  feel- 
ing our  superiority  to  that  which  we  force  ourselves 
to  assimilate  to.  This  has  been  the  perdition  of 
many  a  school-boy  and  many  a  man. 


If 


I 


102 


ITHIOAL  VRAGMBNTB. 


116. 

*'  II  me  semble  quo  le  plas  noble  rapport  entro 
le  oiel  et  la  terre,  le  plus  beau  don  que  Dieu  ait  fait 
k  rhomme,  la  pens^o,  I'inspiration,  se  decompose  en 
quelque  Borte  dda  qu'elle  est  descenduo  dans  son  ame. 
EUe  y  vient  simple  et  d^sint^ress^e  ;  il  la  rtfproduit 
oorrompue  par  tous  les  int^r^ts  auxquels  il  Tassooie ; 
elle  lui  a  ^t6  oonfi6e  pour  la  multiplier  i  Pavantage 
de  tous ;  il  la  publie  au  profit  de  son  amour-propre." 
— Madame  de  Saint-Aulaire. 

There  would  be  much  to  say  about  this,  for  it  is 
not  always,  nor  generally,  amour-propre  or  interest ; 
it  is  the  desire  of  sympathy,  which  impels  the  artist 
mind  to  the  utterance  in  words,  or  the  expression  in 
form,  of  that  thought  or  inspiration  which  God  has 
sent  into  his  soul. 


117. 

MiLTON^s  Eve  is  the  type  of  the  masculine  stand- 
ard of  perfection  in  woman;  a  graceful  figure,  an 
abundance  of  fine  hair,  much  "  coy  submission,"  and 
such  a  degree  of  unreasoning  wilfulness  as  shall  risk 
perdition. 

And  the  woman's  standard  for  the  man  is  Adam, 
who  rules  and  demands  subjection,  and  is  so  indulgent 
that  he  gives  up  to  blandishment  what  he  would  refuse 
to  reason,  and  what  bis  own  reason  condemns. 


REST   AFTER    ArVLIOTION. 


108 


entro 
it  fait 
3se  en 
3  ame. 
roduit 
iBooie ; 
Atitage 
opre." 

i 

r  it  if  ^ 
berest ; 
artist 
lion  in 
[)d  has 


stand- 
ire,  an 
,"  and 
11  risk 


118. 

Every  subject  which  excites  discussion  impels  to 
thought.  £very  expression  of  a  mind  humbly  seek* 
ing  truth,  not  assuming  to  have  found  it,  helps  the 
seeker  after  truth. 

119. 

As  a  man  just  released  from  the  rack  stands 
bruised  and  broken, — bleeding  at  every  pore,  and 
dislocated  in  every  limb,  and  raises  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  says,  ''  God  be  praised !  I  su£fer  no  more  I " 
because  to  that  past  sharp  agony  the  respite  comes 
like  peace — like  sleep, — so  we  stand,  after  some  great 
wrench  in  our  best  affections,  where  they  have  been 
torn  up  by  the  root ;  when  the  conflict  is  over,  and 
the  tension  of  the  heart-strings  is  relaxed,  then  comes 
a  sort  of  rest, — but  of  what  kind  ? 


120. 


To  trust  religiously,  to  hope  humbly,  to  desire 
nobly,  to  think  rationally,  to  will  resolutely,  and  to 
work  earnestly, — may  thifc  be  mine ! 


f 


Adam, 
ulgent 
refuse 


*:  ,X;.f:v:::r  ..■^*-!* 


? '■  .-_-* ''^ 'Vt'    '""V-   v^^''-'  ,i.r- -j'j*''^. "-'■'■%-=  ir-^"^'»  ij?  ■ 


104 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


121. 


I 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOa 

(from  A  LKTIER.)  '  '■■'"'> 

We  are  all  interested  in  this  great  question  of 
popular  education ;  but  I  see  others  much  more  san- 
guine than  I  am.     They  hope  for  some  immediate 
good  result  from  all  that  is  thought,  written,  spoken 
on  the  subject  day  after  day.     I  see  such  results  as 
possible,  probable,  but  far,  far  o£f.     All  this  talk  is 
of  systems  and  methods,  institutions,  school  houses, 
schoolmasters,  schoolmistresses,  school  books;    the 
ways  and  the  means  by  which  we  are  to  instruct,  in- 
form, manage,  mould,  regulate,  that  which  lies  in  most 
cases  beyond  our  reach — the  spirit  sent  from  God. 
What  do  we  know  of  the  mystery  of  child-nature, 
child-life  ?     What,  indeed,  do  we  know  of  any  life  ? 
All  life  we  acknowledge  to  be  an  awful  mystery,  but 
child-life  we  treat  as  if  it  were  no  mystery  whatever 
— ^just  so  much  material  placed  in  our  hands  to  be 
fashioned  to  a  certain  form,  according  to  our  will  or 
our  prejudices, — fitted  to  certain  purposes,  according 
to  our  notions  of  expediency.     Till  we  know  how  to 
reverence  childhood  we  shall  do  no  good.     Educators 
commit  the  same  mistake  with  regard  to  childhood 
that  theologians  commit  with  regard  to  our  present 
earthly  existence ;  thinking  of  it,  treating  of  it,  as 
of  little  value  or  significance  in  itself,  only  transient, 
and  preparatory  to  some  condition  of  being  which  is 


A   REVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


105 


to  follow — as  if  it  were  something  separate  from  us 
and  to  be  left  behind  us  as  the  creature  casts  its 
skin.  But  as  in  the  sight  of  God  this  life  is  also 
something  for  its  own  sake,  so  in  the  estimation  of 
Christ,  childhood  was  something  for  its  own  sake, — 
something  holy  and  beautiful  in  itself,  and  dear  to 
him.  He  saw  it  not  merely  as  the  germ  of  some- 
thing to  grow  out  of  it,  but  as  perfect  and  lovely  in 
itself  as  the  flower  which  precedes  the  fruit.  We 
misunderstand  childhood,  and  we  misuse  it;  we  de- 
light in  it,  and  we  pamper  it ;  we  spoil  it  ingenious- 
ly, we  neglect  it  sinfully ;  at  the  best  we  trifle  with 
it  as  a  plaything  which  we  can  pull  to  pieces  and  put 
together  at  pleasure — ignorant,  reckless,  presumptu- 
ous that  we  are  ! 

And  if  we  are  perpetually  making  the  grossest 
mistakes  in  the  physical  and  practical  management 
of  childhood,  how  much  more  in  regard  to  what  is 
spiritual !  What  do  we  know  of  that  which  lies  in 
the  minds  of  children  ?  we  know  only  what  we  put 
there.  The  world  of  instincts,  perceptions,  experien- 
ces, pleasures,  and  pains,  lying  there  without  self- 
consciousness, — sometimes  helplessly  mute,  sometimes 
so  imperfectly  expressed,  that  we  quite  mistake  the 
manifestation — what  do  we  know  of  all  this  ?  How 
shall  we  come  at  the  understanding  of  it?  The 
child  lives,  and  does  not  contemplate  its  own  life. 
It  can  give  no  account  of  that  inward,  busy,  per- 
petual activity  of  the  growing  faculties  and  feelings 

5* 


106 


BTniOAL   FRAGMENTS.       ^   ti' 


m 


m 


i  I 


which  it  is  of  so  much  importance  that  we  should 
know.     To  lead  children  by  questionings  to  think 
about  their  own  identity,  or  observe  their  own  feel- 
ings, is  to  teach  them  to  be  artificial.     To  waken  self* 
consciousness  before  you  awaken  conscience,  is  the 
beginning  of  incalculable  mischief.      Introspection 
is  always,  as  a  habit,  unhealthy:   introspection  in 
childhood,   fatally   so.     How   shall  we  come  at  a 
knowledge  of  life  such  as  it  is  when  it  first  gushes 
from  its  mysterious   fountain   head?     We   cannot 
reascend  the  stream.     We  all,  however  we  may  re- 
member the  external  scenes  lived  through   in  our 
infancy,  either  do  not,  or  cannot,  consult  that  part 
of  our  nature  which  remains  indissolubly  connected 
with  the  inward  life  of  that  time.     We  so  forget  it, 
that  we  know  not  how  to  deal  with  the  child-nature 
when  it  comes  under  our  power.    We  seldom  reason 
about  children  from  natural  laws,  or  psychological 
data.     Unconsciously  we  confound  our  matured  ex- 
perienced with  our  memory :  we  attribute  to  children 
what  is  not  possible,  exact  from  them  what  is  im- 
possible;— ignore  many  things  which  the  child  has 
neither  words  to  express,  nor  the  will  nor  the  power 
to  manifest.      The  quickness  with  which  children 
perceive,  the  keenness  with  which  they  suffer,  the 
tenacity  with  which  they  remember,  I  have  never 
seen  fully  appreciated.     What  misery  we  cause  to 
children,  what  mischief  we  do  them,  by  bringing  our 
own  minds,  habits,  artificial  prejudices  and  senile 


A   REVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


107 


never 
use  to 


experiences,  to  bear  on  their  young  life,  and  cramp 
and  overshadow  it — it  is  fearful  t 

Of  all  the  wrongs  and  anomalies  that  afflict  our 
earth,  a  sinful  childhood,  a  suffering  childhood,  are 
among  the  worst. 

0  ye  men !  who  sit  in  committees,  and  are  called 
upon  to  legislate  for  children, — for  children  who  are 
the  offspring  of  diseased  or  degenerate  humanity,  or 
the  victims  of  a  yet  more  diseased  society, — do  you, 
when  you  take  evidence  from  jailors,  and  policemen, 
and  parish  schoolmasters,  and  doctors  of  divinity,  do 
you  ever  call  up,  also,  the  wise  physician,  the  thought- 
ful physiologist,  the  experienced  mother  ?  You  have 
accumulated  facts,  great  blue  books  full  of  facts,  but 
till  you  know  in  what  fixed  and  uniform  principles  of 
nature  to  seek  their  solution,  your  facts  remain  a 
dead  letter. 

1  say  nothing  here  of  teaching,  though  very  few 
in  truth  understand  that  lowest  part  of  our  duty  to 
children.  Men,  it  is  generally  allowed,  teach  better 
than  women  because  they  have  been  better  taught 
the  things  they  teach.  Women  train  better  than 
men  because  of  their  quick  instinctive  perceptions 
and  sympathies,  and  greater  tenderness  and  patience. 
In  schools  and  in  families  I  would  have  some  things 
taught  by  men,  and  some  by  women :  but  wo  will 
here  put  aside  the  art,  the  act  of  teaching :  we  will 
turn  aside  from  the  droves  of  children  in  national 
schools  and  reformatory  asylums,  and  turn  to  the 


108 


ETHICAL   FRA0MBNT8. 


it 


individual  child,  brought  up  within  the  guarded 
circle  of  a  home  or  a  select  school,  watched  by  an 
intelligent,  a  conscientious  influence.  How  shall  we 
deal  with  that  spirit  which  has  come  out  of  nature's 
hands  unless  we  remember  what  we  were  ourselves 
in  the  past?  What  sympathy  can  we  have  with 
that  state  of  being  which  we  regard  as  immature, 
so  long  as  we  commit  the  double  mistake  of  some- 
times attributing  to  children  motives  which  could 
only  spring  from  our  adult  experience,  and  some- 
times denying  to  them  the  same  intuitive  tempers 
and  feelings  which  actuate  and  agitate  our  maturer 
life  ?  We  do  not  sufficiently  consider  that  our  life 
is  not  made  up  of  separate  parts,  but  is  one — is  a 
progressive  whole.  When  we  talk  of  leaving  our 
childhood  behind  us,  we  might  as  well  say  that  the 
river  flowing  onward  to  the  sea  had  left  the  fountain 
behind. 


\*!' 


122. 


v.-'*  .-.^J 


I  WILL  here  put  together  some  recollections  of 
my  own  child-life ;  not  because  it  was  in  any  respect 
an  exceptional  or  remarkable  existence,  but  for  a 
reason  exactly  the  reverse,  because  it  was  like  that 
of  many  children;  at  least  I  have  met  with  many 
children  who  throve  or  suffered  from  the  same  or 
similar  unseen  causes  even  under  external  conditions 
and  management  every  way  dissimilar.  Facts,  there- 
fore, which  can  be  relied  on,  may  be  generally  useful 


A   RBVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


109 


)DS   of 

respect 

for  a 

|:e  that 

many 

|me  or 

litions 

Itbere- 

luseful 


as  hints  towards  a  theory  of  ooadaot.  What  I  shall 
say  here  shall  be  simply  the  truth  so  far  as  it  goes ; 
not  something  between  the  false  and  the  true,  gar- 
nished for  effect, — not  something  half-remembered, 
half-imagined, — but  plain,  absolute,  matter  of  fact. 

No ;  certainly  I  was  not  an  extraordinary  child. 
I  have  had  something  to  do  with  children,  and  have 
met  with  several  more  remarkable  for  quickness  of 
talent,  and  precocity  of  feeling.  If  any  thing  in  par- 
ticular, I  believe  I  was  particularly  naughty, — at 
least  so  it  was  said  twenty  times  a  day.  But  looking 
back  now,  I  do  not  think  I  was  particular  even  in 
this  respect ;  I  perpetrated  not  more  than  the  usual 
amount  of  mischief — so  called — which  every  lively 
active  child  perpetrates  between  five  and  ten  years 
old.  I  had  the  usual  desire  to  know,  and  the  usual 
dislike  to  learn;  the  usual  love  of  fairy  tales,  and 
hatred  of  French  exercises.  But  not  of  what  I 
learned,  but  of  what  I  did  not  learn ;  not  of  what 
they  taught  me,  but  of  what  they  could  not  teach 
me ;  not  of  what  was  open,  apparent,  manageable, 
but  of  the  under  current,  the  hidden,  the  unmanaged 
or  unmanageable,  I  have  to  speak,  and  you,  my 
friend,  to  hear  and  turn  to  account,  if  you  will,  and 
how  you  will.  As  we  grow  old  the  experiences  of 
infancy  come  back  upon  us  with  a  strange  vividness. 
There  is  a  period  when  the  overflowing,  tumultuous 
life  of  our  youth  rises  up  between  us  and  those  first 
years ;  but  as  the  torrent  subsides  in  its  bed  we  can 


I 


t 


110 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


( I 


look  across  the  impassable  gulf  to  that  haunted  fairy 
land  which  we  shall  never  more  approach,  and  never 
more  forget !  r 

:'■    ,  ■■?* 

In  memory  I  can  go  back  to  a  very  early  age. 
I  perfectly  remember  being  sung  to  sleep,  and  can 
remember  even  the  tune  which  was  sang  to  me — 
blessings  on  the  voice  that  sang  it  i  I  was  an  affec- 
tionate, but  not,  as  I  now  think,  a  loveable  nor  an 
attractive  child.  I  did  not,  like  the  little  Mozart, 
ask  of  every  one  around  me,  "Do  you  love  me?" 
The  instinctive  question  was,  rather,  "  Can  I  love 
you  ?  "  Yet  certainly  I  was  not  more  than  six  years 
old  when  I  suffered  from  the  fear  of  not  being  loved 
where  I  had  attached  myself,  and  from  the  idea  that 
another  was  preferred  before  me,  such  anguish  as  had 
nearly  killed  me.  Whether  those  around  me  re* 
garded  it  as  a  fit  of  ill-temper,  or  a  fit  of  illness,  I  do 
not  know.  I  could  not  then  have  given  a  name  to 
the  pang  that  fevered  me.  I  knew  not  the  cause, 
but  never  forgot  the  suffering.  It  left  a  deeper  im- 
pression than  childish  passions  usually  do  ;.  and  the 
recollection  was  so  far  salutary,  that  in  after  life  I 
guarded  myself  against  the  approaches  of  that  hate- 
ful, deformed,  agonising  thing  which  men  call  jeal- 
ousy, as  I  would  from  an  attack  of  cramp  or  cholera. 
If  such  self-knowledge  has  not  saved  me  from  the 
pain,  at  least  it  has  saved  me  from  the  demoralizing 


A    REYBLATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


Ill 


cause 


effects  of  the  passion,  by  a  wholesome  terror,  and 
eyen  a  sort  of  disgust. 

With  a  good  temper,  there  was  the  capacity  of 
strong,  deep,  silent  resentment,  and  a  vindictive 
spirit  of  rather  a  peculiar  kind.  I  recollect  that 
when  one  of  those  set  over  me  inflicted  what 
then  appeared  a  most  horrible  injury  and  injustice, 
the  thoughts  of  vengeance  haunted  my  fancy 
for  months ;  but  it  was  an  inverted  sort  of  ven- 
geance. I  imagined  the  house  of  my  enemy  on  fire, 
and  rushed  through  the  flames  to  rescue  her.  She 
was  drowning,  and  I  leaped  into  the  deep  water  to 
draw  her  forth.  She  was  pining  in  prison,  and  I 
forced  bars  and  bolts  to  deliver  her.  If  this  were 
magnanimity,  it  was  not  the  less  vengeance;  for, 
observe,  I  always  fancied  evil,  and  shame,  and  humi- 
liation to  my  adversary  ;  to  myself  the  role  of  supe- 
riority and  gratified  pride.  For  several  years  this 
sort  of  burning  resentment  against  wrong  done  to 
myself  and  others,  though  it  took  no  mean  or  cruel 
form,  was  a  source  of  intense,  untold  suffering.  No 
one  was  aware  of  it.  I  was  left  to  settle  it ;  and 
my  mind  righted  itself  I  hardly  know  how:  not 
certainly  by  religious  influences — they  passed  over 
my  mind,  and  did  not  at  the  time  sink  into  it, — and 
as  for  earthly  counsel  or  comfort,  I  never  had  either 
when  most  needed.  And  as  it  fared  with  me  then, 
so  it  has  been  in  after  life ;  so  it  has  been,  inust  be, 
with  all  those  who,  in  fighting  out  alone  the  pitched 


112 


iETHIOAL  TRAOMBNT8. 


battle  between  principle  and  passion,  will  accept  no 
intervention  between  the  infinite  within  them  and 
the  infinite  above  them ;  so  it  has  been,  must  be,  with 
all  strong  natures.  Will  it  bo  said,  that  victory  in 
the  struggle  brings  increase  of  strength?  It  may 
be  so  with  some  who  survive  the  contest ;  but  then, 
how  many  sink  I  how  many  are  crippled  morally 
for  life !  how  many,  strengthened  in  some  particular 
faculties,  su£fer  in  losing  the  harmony  of  the  character 
as  a  whole  !  This  is  one  of  the  points  in  which  the 
matured  mind  may  help  the  childish  nature  at  strife 
with  itself.  It  is  impossible  to  say  how  far  this  sort 
of  vindictiveness  might  have  penetrated  and  hardened 
into  the  character,  if  I  had  been  of  a  timid  or  re- 
tiring nature.  It  was  expelled  at  last  by  no  outer 
influences,  but  by  a  growing  sense  of  power  and  self- 
reliance. 


In  regard  to  truth — always  such  a  difficulty  in 
education, — I  certainly  had,  as  a  child,  and  like 
most  children,  confused  ideas  about  it.  I  had  a  more 
distinct  and  absolute  idea  of  honour  than  of  truth, 
— a  mistake  into  which  our  conventional  morality 
leads  those  who  educate  and  those  who  are  educated. 
I  knew  very  well,  in  a  general  way,  that  to  tell  a  lie 
was  wicked ;  to  lie  for  my  own  profit  or  pleasure,  or  to 
the  hurt  of  others,  was,  according  to  my  infant  code 
of  morals,  worse  than  wicked — it  was  dishonourable. 
But  I  had  no  compunction  about  telling  fictions; 


A    REVELATION    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


113 


cept  no 
3m  and 
be,  with 
story  in 
It  may 
at  then, 
morally 
articular 
[laracter 
lich  the 
at  strife 
this  sort 
ardened 
I  or  re- 
10  outer 
,nd  self- 


Bulty  in 
nd  like 

a  more 
f  truth, 
norality 

ucated. 
3ll  a  lie 
re,  or  to 

nt  code 

ourable. 

ctions  ; 


inventing  scenes  and  circumstances  which  I  re« 
lated  as  real,  and  with  a  keen  sense  of  triumphant 
enjoyment,  in  seeing  the  listener  taken  in  by  a  most 
artful  and  ingenious  concatenation  of  impossibilities. 
In  this  respect  "  Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto,  that  liar 
of  the  first  magnitude,"  was  nothing  in  comparison 
to  me.  I  must  have  been  twelve  years  old  before 
my  conscience  was  first  awakened  up  to  a  sense  of 
the  necessity  of  truth  as  a  principle,  as  well  as  its 
holiness  as  a  virtue.  Afterwards,  having  to  set 
right  the  minds  of  others  cleared  my  own  mind  on 
this  and  some  other  important  points. 

I  do  not  think  I  was  naturally  obstinate,  but  re- 
member going  without  food  all  day,  and  being  sent 
hungry  and  exhausted  to  bed,  because  I  would  not 
do  some  trifiing  thing  required  of  me.  I  think  it 
was  to  recite  some  lines  I  knew  by  heart.  I  was 
punished  as  wilfully  obstinate:  but  what  no  one 
knew  then,  and  what  I  know  now  as  the  fact,  was, 
that  after  refusing  to  do  what  was  required,  and 
bearing  anger  and  threats  in  consequence,  I  lost  the 
power  to  do  it.  I  became  stone :  the  will  was  petri- 
fied, and  I  absolutely  could  not  comply.  They  might 
have  hacked  me  in  pieces  before  my  lips  could  have 
unclosed  to  utterance.  The  obstinacy  was  not  in 
the  mind,  but  on  the  nerves;  and  I  am  persuaded 
that  what  we  call  obstinacy  in  children,  and  grown- 
up people,  too,  is  often  something  of  this  kind,  and 


114 


ETHICAL   FRAOMENTS.     g;    ^Jt 


that  it  may  be  increased  by  mismanagement,  by 
persistence,  or  what  is  called  firmness,  in  the  con* 
trolling  power,  into  disease,  or  something  near  to  it. 

There  was  in  my  childish  mind  another  cause  of 
suffering  besides  those  I  have  mentioned,  less  acute, 
but  more  permanent  and  always  unacknowledged. 
It  was  fear — fear  of  darkness  and  supernatural  in- 
fluences. As  long  as  I  can  remember  anything,  I 
remember  these  horrors  of  my  infancy.  How  they 
had  been  awakened  I  do  not  know ;  they  were  never 
revealed.  I  had  heard  other  children  ridiculed  for 
such  fears,  and  held  my  peace.  At  first  these 
haunting,  thrilling,  stifling  terrors  were  vague ;  after- 
wards the  form  varied ;  but  one  of  the  most  perma- 
nent was  the  ghost  in  Hamlet.  There  was  a  volume 
of  Shakspeare  lying  about,  in  which  was  an  en- 
graving I  have  not  seen  since,  but  it  remains  dis- 
tinct in  my  mind  as  a  picture.  On  one  side  stood 
Hamlet  with  his  hair  on  end,  literally  "  like  quills 
upon  the  fretful  porcupine,"  and  one  hand  with  all 
the  fingers  outspread.  On  the  other  stride d  the 
ghost,  encased  in  armour  with  nodding  plumes ;  one 
finger  pointing  forwards,  and  all  surrounded  with  a 
supernatural  light.  0  that  spectre  !  for  three  years 
it  followed  me  up  and  down  the  dark  staircase,  or 
stood  by  my  bed :  only  the  blessed  light  had  power 
to  exorcise  it.  How  it  was  that  I  knew,  while  I 
trembled  and  quaked,  that  it  was  unreal,  never  cried 


A    REVKLATION    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


115 


lent,  by 
the  con* 
ar  to  it 

lause  of 

38  acute, 

virledged. 

bural  in- 

thing,  I 

[ow  they 

re  never 

luled  for 

at  these 

b;  after- 

t  perma- 

volume 

an  en- 

Eiins  dis- 

le  stood 

ke  quills 

with  all 

ded  the 

Les;  one 

I  with  a 

3e  years 

I'case,  or 

i  power 

while  I 

er  cried 


out,  never  expostulated,  never  confessed,  I  do  not 
know.  The  figure  of  Apollyon  looming  over  Christian, 
which  I  had  found  in  an  old  edition  of  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  was  also  a  great  torment.  But  worse, 
perhaps,  were  certain  phantasms  without  shape, — 
things  like  the  vision  in  Job — "  A  spirit  passed  he- 
fore  my  face;  it  stood  still,  but  I  could  not  discern  the 
form  thereof:''^ — and  if  not  intelligible  voices,  there 
were  strange  unaccountable  sounds  filling  the  air 
around  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  life.  In  daylight 
I  was  not  only  fearless,  but  audacious,  inclined  to 
defy  all  power  and  brave  all  danger, — that  is,  all 
danger  I  could  see.  I  remember  volunteering  to 
lead  the  way  through  a  herd  of  cattle  (among  which 
was  a  dangerous  bull,  the  terror  of  the  neighbour- 
hood) armed  only  with  a  little  stick ;  but  first  I  said 
the  Lord's  Prayer  fervently.  In  the  ghastly  night 
I  never  prayed ;  terror  stifled  prayer.  These  vision- 
ary sufferings,  in  some  form  or  other,  pursued  me 
till  I  was  nearly  twelve  years  old.  If  I  had  not 
possessed  a  strong  constitution  and  a  strong  under- 
standing, which  rejected  and  contemned  my  own 
fears,  even  while  they  shook  me,  I  had  been  destroyed. 
How  much  weaker  children  suffer  in  this  way,  I  have 
since  known ;  and  have  known  how  to  bring  them 
help  and  strength,  through  sympathy  and  knowledge, 
the  sympathy  that  soothes  and  does  not  encourage — 
the  knowledge  that  dispels,  and  does  not  suggest, 
the  evil. 


/ 


116 


BTHIOAL   FRAOMENTS. 


People,  in  general,  even  those  who  have  heen 
much  interested  in  education,  are  not  aware  of  the 
sacred  duty  of  truths  exact  truth  in  their  intercourse 
with  children.  Limit  what  you  toll  them  according 
to  the  measure  of  their  faculties  ;  hut  let  what  you 
say  he  the  truth.  Accuracy  not  merely  as  to  fact, 
hut  well-considered  accuracy  in  the  use  of  words,  is 
essential  with  children.  I  have  read  some  wise  hook 
on  the  treatment  of  the  insane,  in  which  ahsoluto 
veracity  and  accuracy  in  speaking  is  prescribed  as  a 
curative  principle ;  and  deception  for  any  purpose  is 
deprecated  as  almost  fatal  to  the  health  of  the 
patient.  Now,  it  is  a  good  sanitary  principle,  that 
what  is  curative  is  preventive ;  and  that  an  unhealthy 
state  of  mind,  leading  to  madness,  may,  in  some 
organisations,  he  induced  by  that  sort  of  uncertainty 
and  perplexity  which  grows  up  where  the  mind  has 
not  been  accustomed  to  truth  in  its  external  relations. 
It  is  like  breathing  for  a  continuance  an  impure  or 
confined  air. 

Of  the  mischief  that  may  be  done  to  a  childish 
mind  by  a  falsehood  uttered  in  thoughtless  gaiety,  I 
remember  an  absurd  and  yet  a  painful  instance.  A 
visitor  was  turning  over,  for  a  little  girl,  some  prints, 
one  of  which  represented  an  Indian  widow  springing 
into  the  fire  kindled  for  the  funeral  pile  of  her  hus- 
band. It  was  thus  explained  to  the  child,  who  asked 
innocently,  whether,  if  her  father  died,  her  mother 
would  be  burned  ?     The  person  to  whom  the  ques- 


Eii'l  I 


A    REVELATION    OP   CHILDHOOD. 


117 


ire  been 
)  of  the 
ercourse 
ocording 
irhat  you 
to  fact, 
(7ords,  is 
ise  book 
absolute 
ibed  as  a 
arpose  is 
of   the 
pie,  that 
inhealthy 
in  some 
lertainty 
nind  has 
elatioDS. 
ipure  or 

childish 
gaiety,  I 
mce.  A 
le  prints, 
pringing 
her  hus- 
10  asked 
mother 
he  ques* 


tion  was  addressed,  a  lively,  amiable  woman,  was 
probably  much  amused  by  the  question,  and  answered, 
giddily,  "  Oh,  of  course,— certainly  I  "  and  was  be- 
lieved implicitly.  But  thenceforth,  for  many  weary 
months,  the  mind  of  that  child  was  haunted  and  tor- 
tured by  the  image  of  her  mother  springing  into  the 
devouring  flames,  and  consumed  by  fire,  with  all  the 
accessories  of  the  picture,  particularly  the  drums 
beating  to  drown  her  cries.  In  a  weaker  organisa- 
tion, the  results  might  have  been  permanent  and 
serious.     But  to  proceed. 

These  terrors  I  have  described  had  an  existence 
external  to  myself:  I  had  no  power  over  them  to 
shape  them  by  ray  will,  and  their  power  over  me 
vanished  gradually  before  a  more  dangerous  infatua- 
tion,— the  propensity  to  reverie.  The  shaping  spirit 
of  imagination  began  when  I  was  about  eight  or  nine 
years  old  to  haunt  my  intter  life.  I  can  truly  say 
that,  from  ten  years  old  to  fourteen  or  fifteen,  I  lived 
a  double  existence;  one  outward,  linking  me  with 
the  external  sensible  world,  the  other  inward,  creat- 
ing a  world  to  and  for  itself,  conscious  to  itself  only. 
I  carried  on  for  whole  years  a  series  of  actions,  scenes, 
and  adventures;  one  springing  out  of  another,  and 
coloured  and  modified  by  increasing  knowledge.  This 
habit  grew  so  upon  me,  that  there  were  moments — 
as  when  I  came  to  some  crisis  in  my  imaginary  ad- 
ventures,— when  I  was  not  more  awake  to  outward 
things  than  in  sleep, — scarcely  took  cognisance  of  the 


I 


118 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


beings  around  me.  When  punished  for  idleness 
by  being  placed  in  solitary  confinement  (the  worst 
of  all  punishments  for  children),  the  intended  penance 
was  nothing  less  than  a  delight  and  an  emancipation, 
giving  me  up  to  my  dreams.  I  had  a  very  strict  and 
very  accomplished  governess,  one  of  the  cleverest 
women  I  have  ever  met  with  in  my  life ;  but  nothing 
of  this  was  known  or  even  suspected  by  her,  and  I 
exulted  in  possessing  something  which  her  power 
could  not  reach.  My  reveries  were  my  real  life  :  it 
was  an  unhealthy  state  of  things.  '<  i 

Those  who  are  engaged  in  the  training  of  children 
will  perhaps  pause  here.  It  may  be  said,  in  the  first 
place,  How  are  we  to  reach  those  recesses  of  the  inner 
life  which  the  God  who  made  us  keeps  from  every 
eye  but  his  own  ?  As  when  we  walk  over  the  field 
in  spring  we  are  aware  of  a  thousand  influences  and 
processes  at  work  of  which  we  have  no  exact  knowl- 
edge or  clear  perception,  yet  must  watch  and  use  ac- 
cordingly,— so  it  is  with  education.  And  secondly, 
it  may  be  asked,  if  such  secret  processes  be  working 
unconscious  mischief,  where  the  remedy  ?  The 
remedy  is  in  employment.  Then  the  mother  or  the 
teacher  echoes  with  astonishment,  "  Employment ! 
the  child  is  employed  from  morning  till  night ;  she 
is  learning  a  dozen  sciences  and  languages  ;  she  has 
masters  and  lessons  for  every  hour  of  every  day ;  with 
her  pencil,  her  piano,  her  books,  her  companions,  her 
birds,  her  flowers, — what  can  she  want  more  ?  "     Au 


A    REVELATION    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


119 


idleness 
he  worst 
I  penance 
icipation, 
itrict  and 
cleverest 
t  nothing 
er,  and  I 
3r  power 
il  life :  it 

f  children 
1  the  first 
the  inner 
om  every 
the  field 
nccs  and 
knowl- 
US8  ac- 
secondly, 
working 
The 
er  or  the 
oyment ! 
ght ;   she 
she  has 
ay;  with 
ions,  her 
? "     An 


:\i 


■V 


energetic  child  even  at  a  very  early  age,  and  yet 
farther  as  the  physical  organisation  is  developed, 
wants  something  more  and  something  better ;  em- 
ployment which  shall  bring  with  it  the  bond  of  a 
higher  duty  than  that  which  centres  in  self  and  self- 
improvement  ;  employment  which  shall  not  merely 
cultivate  the  understanding,  but  strengthen  and  ele- 
vate the  conscience  ;  employment  for  the  higher  and 
more  generous  faculties ;  employment  addressed  to 
the  sympathies ;  employment  which  has  the  aim  of 
utility,  not  pretended,  but  real,  obvious,  direct  utility. 
A  girl  who  as  a  mere  child  is  not  always  being  taught 
or  being  amused,  whose  mind  is  early  restrained  by 
the  bond  of  definite  duty,  and  thrown  out  of  the  limit 
of  self,  will  not  in  after  years  be  subject  to  fancies 
that  disturb  or  to  reveries  that  absorb,  and  the 
present  and  the  actual  will  have  that  power  they 
ought  to  have  as  combined  in  due  degree  with  desire 
and  anticipation. 

The  Koman  Catholic  priesthood  understand  this 
well :  employment,  which  enlists  with  the  spiritual 
the  sympathetic  part  of  our  being,  is  a  means  through 
which  they  guide  both  young  and  adult  minds. 
Physicians  who  have  to  manage  various  states  of 
mental  and  moral  disease  understand  this  well ;  they 
speak  of  the  necessity  of  employment  (not  mere 
amusement)  as  a  curative  means,  but  of  employment 
with  the  direct  aim  of  usefulness,  apprehended  and 
appreciated  by  the  patient,  else  it  is  nothing.     It  is 


120 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


the  same  with  children.  Such  employment,  chosen 
with  reference  to  utility,  and  in  harmony  with  the 
faculties,  would  prove  in  many  cases  either  preventive 
or  curative.  In  my  own  case,  as  I  now  think,  it 
would  have  been  both. 

There  was  a  time  when  it  was  thought  essential 
that  women  should  know  something  of  cookery,  some- 
thing of  medicine,  something  of  surgery.  If  all  these 
things  arc  far  better  understood  now  than  heretofore, 
is  that  a  reason  why  a  well  educated  woman  should 
be  left  wholly  ignorant  of  them  ?  A  knowledge  of 
what  people  call  "  common  things  "  —of  the  elements 
of  physiology,  of  the  conditions  of  health,  of  the 
qualities,  nutritive  or  remedial,  of  substances  com- 
monly used  as  food  or  medicine,  and  the  most  econo- 
mical and  most  beneficial  way  of  applying  both, — 
these  should  form  a  part  of  the  system  of  every  girls' 
school — whether  for  the  higher  or  the  lower  classes. 
At  present  you  shall  see  a  girl  studying  chemistry, 
and  attending  Faraday's  lectures,  who  would  be 
puzzled  to  compound  a  rice-pudding  or  a  cup  of  bar- 
ley-water :  and  a  girl  who  could  work  quickly  a  com- 
plicated sum  in  the  Bule  of  Three,  afterwards  wast- 
ing a  fourth  of  her  husband's  wages  through  want  of 
management.      •  ,  ,,• 

In  my  own  case,  how  much  of  the  practical  and 
the  sympathetic  in  my  nature  was  exhausted  in  airy 
visions ! 

As  to  the  8tu£f  out  of  which  my  waking  dreams 


A    REVELATION    OF    CHILDHOOD. 


121 


,  chosen 
with  the 
•eventive 
think,  it 

essential 
ry,  some- 
all  these 
eretofore, 
n  should 
ledge  of 
elements 
3,  of  the 
iCes  com- 
st  econo- 

both, — 
ery  girls' 
tr  classes, 
hemistry, 
Yould  be 

of  bar- 
y  a  com- 
xds  wast- 

want  of 

tical  and 
in  airy 

dreams 


were  composed,  I  cannot  tell  you  much.  I  have  a 
remembrance  that  I  was  always  a  princess- heroine  in 
the  disguise  of  a  knight,  a  sort  of  Glorinda  or  Brito- 
mart,  going  about  to  redress  the  wrongs  of  the  poor, 
fight  giants,  and  kill  dragons ;  or  founding  a  society 
in  some  far-off  solitude  or  desolate  island,  which  would 
have  rivalled  that  of  Gonsalez,  where  there  were  to 
be  no  tears,  no  tasks,  and  no  laws, — except  those 
which  I  made  myself, — no  caged  birds  nor  tormented 
kittens. 

128. 

Enough  of  the  pains,  and  mistakes,  and  vagaries 
of  childhood ;  let  me  tell  of  some  of  its  pleasures 
equally  unguessed  and  unexpressed.  A  great,  an  ex- 
quisite source  of  enjoyment  arose  out  of  an  early, 
^  instinctive,  boundless  delight  in  external  beauty. 
How  this  went  hand  in  hand  with  my  terrors  and  rev- 
eries, how  it  could  coexist  with  them,  I  cannot  tell 
now — it  was  so ;  and  if  this  sympathy  with  the  ex- 
ternal, living,  beautiful  world,  had  been  properly, 
scientifically  cultivated,  and  directed  to  useful  definite 
purposes,  it  would  have  been  the  best  remedy  for 
much  that  was  morbid ;  this  was  not  the  case,  and 
we  were,  unhappily  for  me,  too  early  removed  from 
the  country  to  a  town  residence.  I  can  remember, 
however,  that  in  very  early  years  the  appearances  of 
nature  did  truly  "  haunt  me  like  a  passion ;  "  the  stars 
were  to  me  as  the  gates  of  heaven ;  the  rolling  of  the 
-   ■! 


■i ' 


r  I 


.^."f    I 


122 


ETHICAL   FBAGMBNTS. 


wave  to  the  shore,  the  graceful  weeds  and  grasses 
bending  before  the  breeze  as  they  grew  by  the  way- 
side ;  the  minute  and  delicate  forms  of  insects ;  the 
trembling  shadows  of  boughs  and  leaves  dancing  on 
the  ground  in  the  highest  noon ;  these  were  to  me 
perfect  pleasures  of  which  the  imagery  now  in  my 
mind  is  distinct.  Wordsworth's  poem  of  "  The  Daf- 
fodils," the  one  beginning — 

"I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud," 

may  appear  to  some  unintelligible  or  overcharged, 
but  to  me  it  was  a  vivid  truth,  a  simple  fact ;  and  if 
Wordsworth  had  been  then  in  my  hands  I  think  I 
must  have  loved  him.  It  was  this  intense  sense  of 
beauty  which  gave  the  first  zest  to  poetry :  I  loved  it, 
not  because  it  told  me  what  I  did  not  know,  but  be- 
cause it  helped  me  to  words  in  which  to  clothe  my 
own  knowledge  and  perceptions,  and  reflected  back 
the  pictures  unconsciously  hoarded  up  in  my  mind. 
This  was  what  made  Thomson's  "  Seasons  "  a  favour- 
ite book  when  I  first  began  to  read  for  my  own 
amusement,  and  before  I  could  understand  one  half 
of  it ;  St.  Pierre's  "  Indian  Cottage  "  ("  La  Chaum- 
i^re  Indienne  ")  was  also  charming,  either  because  it 
reflected  my  dreams,  or  gave  me  new  stuff  for  them 
in  pictures  of  an  external  world  quite  diflierent  from 
that  I  inhabited, — palm-trees,  elephants,  tigers,  dark- 
turbaned   men   wi< 


flowing    draperi 


:jy, 


♦ 


A   REVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


123 


grasses 
the  way- 
5cts;  the 
.ncing  on 
■e  to  me 
S7  in  my 
rhe  Daf- 


rcharged, 
r,  and  if 
[  think  I 
sense  of 
I  loved  it, 
Wy  but  be- 
dothe  my 
Qted  back 
my  mind, 
a  favour- 
my  own 
one  half 
a  Chaum- 
)ecause  it 
for  them 
rent  from 
;ers,  dark- 
and    the 


"  Arabian  Nights  '^  completed  my  Oriental  intoxica- 
tion, which  lasted  for  a  long  time. 

I  have  said  little  of  the  impressions  left  by  books, 
and  of  my  first  religious  notions.  A  friend  of  mine 
had  once  the  wise  idea  of  collecting  together  a  variety 
of  evidence  as  to  the  impressions  left  by  certain 
books  on  childish  or  immature  minds :  If  carried  out, 
it  would  have  been  one  of  the  most  valuable  additions 
to  educational  experience  ever  made.  For  myself  I 
did  not  much  care  about  the  books  put  into  my  hands, 
nor  imbibe  much  information  from  them.  I  had  a 
great  taste,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  forbidden  books ; 
yet  it  was  not  the  forbidden  books  that  did  the  mis- 
chief, except  in  their  being  read  furtively.  I  remem- 
ber impressions  of  vice  and  cruelty  from  some  parts 
of  the  Old  Testament  and  Goldsmith's  "  History  of 
England,"  which  I  shudder  to  recall.  Shakspeare 
was  on  the  forbidden  shelf.  I  had  read  him  all 
through  between  seven  and  ten  years  old.  He  never 
did  me  any  moral  mischief.  He  never  soiled  my 
mind  with  any  disordered  image.  What  was  excep- 
tionable and  coarse  in  language  I  passed  by  without 
attaching  any  meaning  whatever  to  it.  How  it  might 
have  been  if  I  had  read  Shakspeare  first  when  I  was 
fifteen  or  sixteen,  I  do  not  know ;  perhaps  the  occa- 
sional coarsenesses  and  obscurities  might  have  shocked 
the  delicacy  or  puzzled  the  intelligence  of  that  sensi- 
tive and  inquiring  age.  But  at  nine  or  ten  I  had  no 
comprehension  of  what  was  unseemly ;  what  might  be 


124 


ETHICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


obscure  in  words  to  wordy  commentators,  was  to  me 
lighted  up  by  the  idea  I  found  or  interpreted  for  my- 
self— right  or  wrong. 

No;  I  repeat,  Shakspeare — bless  him! — never 
did  me  any  moral  mischief.  Though  the  Witches  in 
Macbeth  troubled  me, — though  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet 
terrified  me  (the  picture  that  is, — for  the  spirit  in 
Shakspeare  was  solemn  and  pathetic,  not  hideous), — 
though  poor  little  Arthur  cost  me  an  ocean  of  tears, 
— ^yet  much  that  was  obscure,  and  all  that  was  painful 
and  revolting  was  merged  on  the  whole  in  the  vivid 
presence  bf  a  new,  beautiful,  vigorous  living  world. 
The  plays  which  I  now  think  the  most  wonderful 
produced  comparatively  little  effect  on  my  fancy: 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  struck  me  then 
less  than  the  historical  plays,  and  far  less  than  the 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  and  Cymbeline.  It  may 
be  thought,  perhaps,  that  Falstaff  is  not  a  character 
to  strike  a  child,  or  to  be  understood  by  a  child : — 
no ;  surely  not.  To  me  Falstaff  was  not  witty  and 
wicked — only  irresistibly  fat  and  funny;  and  I  re- 
member lying  on  the  ground  rolling  with  laughter 
over  some  of  the  scenes  in  Henry  the  Fourth, — the 
mock  play,  and  the  seven  men  in  buckram.  But  the 
Tempest  and  Cymbeline  were  the  plays  I  liked  best 
and  knew  best.  v^j, , 

Altogether  I  should  say  that  in  my  early  years 
books  were  known  to  me,  not  as  such,  not  for  their 
general  contents,  but  for  some  especial  image  or  pic- 


^^ 


▲   REVSLATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


126 


s  to  me 
I  for  my- 

! — never 
itches  in 
i  Hamlet 

spirit  in 
deous), — 
I  of  tears, 
a,s  painful 
the  vivid 
Dg  world, 
wonderful 
fly  fancy: 
k  me  then 

than  the 
It  may 

character 
child : — 

witty  and 

and  I  re- 
laughter 

arth, — the 
But  the 

iked  best 

'      _  ...»  .f^   : 

|arij  years 

for  their 

tge  or  pic- 


ture I  had  picked  out  of  them  and  assimilated  to  my 
own  mind  and  mixed  up  with  my  own  life.  For  ex- 
ample, out  of  Homer's  Odyssey  (lent  to  me  by  the 
parish  clerk)  I  had  the  picture  of  Nasicaa  and  her 
maidens  going  down  in  their  chariots  to  wash  their 
linen :  so  that  when  the  first  time  I  went  to  the  Pitti 
Palace,  and  could  hardly  see  the  pictures  through 
blinding  tears,  I  saw  that  picture  of  Rubens,  which 
all  remember  who  have  been  at  Florence,  and  it 
flashed  delight  and  refreshment  through  those  re- 
membered childish  associations.  The  Syrens  and 
Polypheme  left  also  vivid  pictures  on  my  lancy.  The 
Iliad,  on  the  contrary,  wearied  me,  except  the  parting 
of  Hector  and  Andromache,  in  which  the  child, 
scared  by  its  father's  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest, 
remains  a  vivid  image  in  my  mind  from  that  time. 
^  The  same  parish  clerk — a  curious  fellow  in  his 
way, — lent  me  also  some  religious  tracts  and  stories, 
by  Hannah  More.  It  is  most  certain  that  more 
moral  mischief  was  done  to  me  by  some  of  these 
than  by  all  Sbakspeare's  plays  together.  These  so- 
called  pious  tracts  first  introduced  me  to  a  knowledge 
of  the  vices  of  vulgar  life,  and  the  excitements  of  a 
vulgar  religion, — the  fear  of  being  hanged  and  the 
fear  of  hell  became  coexistent  in  my  mind;  and 
the  teaching  resolved  itself  into  this, — that  it  was 
not  by  being  naughty,  but  by  being  found  0)it,  that 
I  was  to  incur  the  risk  of  both.  My  fairy  world 
was  better ! 


/■ 


126 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


About  Religion : — I  was  taught  religion  as  chil- 
dren used  to  be  taught  it  in  my  younger  days,  and 
are  taught  it  still  in  some  cases,  I  believe — through 
the  medium  of  creeds  and  catechisms.  I  read  the 
Bible  too  early,  and  too  indiscriminately,  and  too 
irreverently.  Even  the  New  Testament  was  too 
early  placed  in  my  hands ;  too  early  made  a  lesson 
book,  as  the  custom  then  was.  The  letter  of  the 
Scriptures— 'the  words — were  familiarised  to  me  by 
sermonising  and  dogmatising,  long  before  I  could 
enter  into  the  spirit.  Meantime,  happily,  another 
religion  wa§  growing  up  in  my  heart,  which, 
strangely  enough,  seemed  to  me  quite  apart  from 
that  which  was  taught, — ^which,  indeed,  I  never  in 
any  way  regarded  as  the  same  which  I  was  taught 
when  I  stood  up  wearily  on  a  Sunday  to  repeat  the 
collect  and  say  the  catechism.  It  was  quite  another 
thing.  Not  only  the  taught  religion  and  the  senti- 
ment of  faith  and  adoration  were  never  combined, 
but  it  never  for  years  entered  into  my  head  to  com- 
bine them ;  the  first  remained  extraneous,  the  latter 
had  gradually  taken  root  in  my  life,  even  from  the 
moment  my  mother  joined  my  little  hands  in  prayer. 
The  histories  out  of  the  Bible  (the  Parables  espe- 
cially) were,  however,  enchanting  to  me,  though  my 
interpretation  of  them  was  in  some  instances  the 
very  reverse  of  correct  or  orthodox.  To  my  infant 
conception  our  Lord  was  a  being  who  had  come 
down  from  heaven  to  make  people  good,  and  to  tell 


A    REVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


127 


as  chil- 
ays,  and 
-through 
read  the 
and  too 
was   too 
a  lesson 
r  of  the 
10  me  by 
I  could 
',  another 
b,    which, 
)art  from 
never  in 
as  taught 
epeat  the 
e  another 
the  senti- 
comhined, 
d  to  com- 
the  latter 
from  the 
in  prayer, 
bles  espe- 
lough  my 
ances   the 
my  infant 
ad  come 
ad  to  tell 


them  beautiful  stories.  And  though  no  pains  were 
spured  to  indoctrinate  me,  and  all  my  pastors  and 
masters  took  it  for  granted  that  my  ideas  were  quite 
satisfactory,  nothing  could  be  more  confused  and 
heterodox. 

It  is  a  common  observation  that  girls  of  lively 
talents  are  apt  to  grow  pert  and  satirical.  I  fell 
into  this  danger  when  about  ten  years  old.  Sallies 
at  the  expense  of  certain  people,  ill-looking,  or  ill- 
dressed,  or  ridiculous,  or  foolish,  had  been  laughed 
at  and  applauded  in  company,  until,  without  being 
naturally  malignant,  I  ran  some  risk  of  becoming  so 
from  sheer  vanity. 

The  fables  which  appeal  to  our  higher  moral  sym- 
pathies may  sometimes  do  as  much  for  us  as  the 
truths  of  science.  So  thought  our  Saviour  when  he 
taught  the  multitude  in  parables. 

A  good  clergyman  who  lived  near  us,  a  famous 
Persian  scholar,  took  it  into  his  head  to  teach  me 
Persian  (I  was  then  about  seven  years  old),  and  I 
set  to  work  with  infinite  delight  and  earnestness. 
All  I  learned  was  soon  forgotten ;  but  a  few  years 
afterwards,  happening  to  stumble  on  a  volume  of 
Sir  William  Jones's  works — his  Persian  grammar — 
it  revived  my  Orientalism,  and  I  began  to  study  it 
eagerly.  Among  the  exercises  given  was  a  Persian 
fable  or  poem — one  of  those  traditions  of  our  Lord 
which   are  preserved  in  the   East.     The  beautiful 


/ 


128 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


ii  I 


apologue  of  "St.  Peter  and  the  Cherries,"  which 
Goethe  has  versified  or  imitated,  is  a  well  known 
example.  This  fable  I  allude  to  was  something 
similar,  but  I  have  not  met  with  the  original  these 
forty  years,  and  must  give  it  here  from  memory. 

•*  Jesus,"  says  the  story,  "  arrived  one  evening  at 
the  gates  of  a  certain  city,  and  he  sent  his  disciples 
forward  to  prepare  supper,  while  he  himself,  intent 
on  doing  good,  walked  through  the  streets  into  the 
market  place.  • 

^'  And  he  saw  at  the  comer  of  the  market  some 
people  gathered  together  looking  at  an  object  on  the 
ground ;  and  he  drew  near  to  see  what  it  might  be. 
It  was  a  dead  dog,  with  a  halter  round  his  neck, 
by  which  he  appeared  to  have  been  dragged  through 
the  dirt ;  and  a  viler,  a  more  abject,  a  ixiure  unclean 
thing,  never  met  the  eyes  of  man. 

"And  those  who  stood  by  looked  on  with  ab- 
horrence. 

"  *  Faugh ! '  said  one,  stopping  his  nose ;  '  it  pol- 
lutes the  air.'  '  How  long,'  said  another, '  shall  this 
foul  beast  oflfend  our  sight  ? '  '  Look  at  his  torn 
hide,*  said  a  third;  'one  could  not  even  cut  a  shoe 
out  of  it.'  '  And  his  ears,'  said  a  fourth,  '  all  drag- 
gled and  bleeding  ! '  *  No  doubt,'  said  a  fifth, '  he 
hath  been  hanged  for  thieving  ! ' 

"  And  Jesus  heard  them,  and  looking  down  com- 


A   REVELATION    OF   CHILDHOOD. 


120 


which 
known 
ething 
I  these 

ling  at 

sciples 

intent 

ito  the 

i 

t  some 

on  the 
ght  he. 
s  neck, 
hrough 
inclean 

ith  ah- 

it  pol- 
all  this 
s  torn 
a  shoe 
drag- 
th,  '  he 

n  com- 


passionately on  the  dead  creature,  he  said,  *  Pearls 
are  not  equal  to  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth  1 ' 

''Then  the  people  turned  towards  him  with 
amazement,  and  said  among  themselves,  '  Who  is 
this  ?  this  must  he  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  for  only  He 
could  find  something  to  pity  and  approve  even  in  a 
dead  dog ; '  and  heing  ashamed,  they  howed  their 
heads  before  him  and  went  each  on  his  way." 

I  can  recall,  at  this  hour,  the  vivid,  yet  softening 
and  pathetic  impression  left  on  my  fancy  by  this  old 
Eastern  story.  It  struck  me  as  exquisitely  humor- 
ous, as  well  as  exquisitely  beautiful.  It  gave  me 
a  pain  in  my  conscience,  for  it  seemed  thenceforward 
80  easy  and  so  vulgar  to  say  satirical  things,  and  so 
much  nobler  to  bo  benign  and  merciful,  and  I  took 
the  lesson  so  home,  that  I  was  in  great  danger  of 
falling  into  the  opposite  extreme, — of  seeking  the 
beautiful  even  in  the  midst  of  the  corrupt  and  the 
repulsive.  Pity,  a  large  element  in  my  compo- 
sition, might  have  easily  degenerated  into  weakness, 
threatening  to  subvert  hatred  of  evil  in  trying  to 
find  excuses  for  it ;  and  whether  my  mind  has  ever 
completely  righted  itself,  I  am  not  sdre. 

Educators  are  not  always  aware,  I  think,  how  acute 
are  the  perceptions,  and  how  permanent  the  memo- 
ries of  children.  I  remember  experiments  tried  upon 
my  temper  and  feelings,  and  how  I  was  made  aware 
of  this,  by  their  being  repeated,  and,  in  some  in- 

6* 


/ 


m 


J 


180 


BTRIOAL   rRAOMBNTfl. 


Btanoei,  spoken  of,  before  me.  Music,  to  which  I 
was  early  and  peculiarly  sensitive,  was  sometimet 
made  the  medium  of  these  experiments.  DisooYdant 
sounds  were  not  only  hateful,  but  made  me  turn 
white  and  cold,  and  sent  the  blood  backward  to  my 
heart;  and  certain  tunes  had  a  curious  effect,  I 
cannot  now  account  for :  for  though,  when  heard 
for  the  first  time,  they  had  little  effect,  they  became 
intolerable  by  repetition ;  they  turned  up  some 
hidden  emotion  within  mo  too  strong  to  be  borne.  It 
could  not  have  been  from  association,  which  I  believe 
to  be  a  principal  element  in  the  emotion  excited  by 
music.  I  was  too  young  for  that.  What  associations 
could  such  a  baby  have  had  with  pleasure  or  with 
pain  ?  Or  could  it  be  possible  that  associations  with 
some  former  state  of  existence  awoke  up  to  sound  ? 
That  our  life  ''hath  elsewhere  its  beginning,  and 
Cometh  from  afar,"  is  a  belief,  or  at  least  an  instinct, 
in  some  minds,  which  music,  and  only  music,  seems 
to  thrill  into  consciousness.  At  this  time,  when  I  was 
about  five  or  six  years  old,  Mrs.  Arkwright — she  was 
then*  Fanny  Kemble, — used  to  come  to  our  house, 
and  used  to  entrance  me  with  her  singing.  I  had  a 
sort  of  adoration  for  her,  such  as  an  ecstatic  votary 
might  have  for  a  Saint  Cecilia.  I  trembled  with 
pleasure  when  I  only  heard  her  step.  But  her 
voice  ! — it  has  charmed  hundreds  since ;  whom  has 
it  ever  moved  to  a  more  genuine  passion  of  delight 
than  the  little  child  that  crept  silent  and  tremulous 


rhioh  I 
aetime» 
ooYdant 
le  turn 
i  to  iny 
ffeot,  I 
I  heard 
became 
p    some 
me.    It 
;  believe 
sited  by 
(oiations 

or  urith 
ons  with 

sound  ? 


ng, 


and 


instinct, 

0,  seems 

m  I  was 

-she  was 

r  house, 

I  had  a 

0  votary 

ed  with 

But  her 

lom  has 

'  delight 

emulous 


A    REVXLATION    OV   OBILDHOOD. 


lai 


to  her  side  ?  And  she  was  fond  of  me, — fond  of 
singing  to  me,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  fond  also 
of  playing  th  ese  experiments  on  mo.  The  music  of 
"  Paul  and  Virginia  "  was  then  in  vogue,  and  there 
was  one  air — a  very  simple  air — in  that  opera, 
which,  after  the  first  few  bars,  always  made  me  stop 
my  ears  and  rush  out  of  the  room.  I  beonmo  at  last 
aware  that  this  was  sometimes  done  by  particular 
desire  to  please  my  parents,  or  amuse  and  interest 
others  by  the  display  of  such  vehement  emotion. 
My  infant  conscience  became  perplexed  between  the 
reality  of  the  feeling  and  the  exhibition  of  it.  People 
are  not  always  aware  of  the  injury  done  to  children 
by  repeating  before  them  things  they  say,  or  de- 
scribing things  they  do:  words  and  actions,  spon- 
taneous and  unconscious,  become  thenceforth  arti- 
ficial and  conscious.  I  can  speak  of  the  injury  done 
to  myself,  between  five  and  eight  years  old.  There 
was  some  danger  of  my  becoming  a  precocious  actress, 
—danger  of  permanent  mischief  such  as  I  have  seen 
done  to  other  children, — but  I  was  saved  by  the 
recoil  of  resistance  and  resentment  excited  in  my 
mind. 

This  is  enough.     All  that  has  been  told  here 
refers  to  a  period  between  five  and  ten  years  old. 


..tCii- 


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'tx    ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS.     £ 


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F 

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THE  INDIAN  HUNTEE  AND  THE  FIEE. 

(FBOM  the  GERMAN  OF  O.  V.  0.) 


■it't^i 


Once  upon  a  time  the  lightning  from  heaven  fell 
upon  a  tree  standing  in  the  old  primeval  forest,  and 
kindled  it,  so  that  it  flamed  on  high.  And  it  hap- 
pened that  a  young  hunter,  who  had  lost  his  path  in 
that  wilderness,  beheld  the  gleam  of  the  flames  from 
a  distance,  and,  forcing  his  way  through  the  thicket, 
he  flung  himself  down  in  rapture  before  the  blazing 
tree. 

''  0  divine  light  and  warmth ! "  he  exclaimed, 
stretching  forth  his  arms.  "  0  blessed !  0  heaven- 
descended  Fire !  let  me  thank  thee !  let  me  adore 
thee !  Giver  of  a  new  existence,  quickening  thro' 
every  pulse,  how  lost,  how  cold,  how  dark  have  I 
dwelt  without  thee !  Restorer  of  my  life !  remain  ever 
near  me,  and,  through  thy  benign  and  celestial  in- 
fluence, send  love  and  joy  to  illuminate  my  soul !  " 

And  the  Fire  answered  and  said  to  him,  "  It  is 
true  that  my  birth  is  from  heaven,  but  I  am  now, 
through  mingling  with  earthly  elements,  subdued  to 
earthly  influences ;  therefore,  beware  how  thou  choose 
me  for  thy  friend,  without  having  first  studied  my 
twofold  nature.  0  youth !  take  heed  lest  what  ap- 
pear to  thee  now  a  blessing,  may  be  turned,  at  some 
future  time,  to  fiery  pain  and  death."  And  the 
youth  replied,  "  No !  0  no !  thou  blessed  Fire,  this 
could  never  be.    Am  I  then  so  senseless,  so  inoon- 


THS    HUNTfiR    AND    THE    FIRE. 


133 


incon- 


Btant,  so  thankless  ?  O  believe  it  not !  Let  me  stay 
near  thee ;  let  me  be  thy  priest,  to  watch  and  tend 
thee  truly.  Ofttimes  in  my  wild  wintry  life,  when 
the  chill  darkness  encompassed  me,  and  the  ice-blast 
lifted  my  hair,  have  I  dreamed  of  the  soft  summer 
breath, — of  the  sunshine  that  should  light  up  the 
world  within  me  and  the  world  around  me.  But  still 
that  time  came  not.  It  seemed  ever  far,  far  o£f;  and 
I  had  perished  utterly  before  the  light  and  the 
warmth  had  reached  me,  had  it  not  been  for  thee  ! " 

Thus  the  youth  poured  forth  his  soul,  and  the 
Fire  answered  him  in  murmured  tones,  while  her 
beams  with  a  softer  radiance  played  over  his  cheek 
and  brow :  "  Be  it  so  then.  Yet  do  thou  watch  me 
constantly  and  minister  to  me  carefully ;  neglect  me 
not,  leave  me  not  to  myself,  lest  the  light  and  warmth 
in  which  thou  so  delightest  fail  thee  suddenly,  and 
there  be  no  redress ;  and  0  watch  thyself  also !  be- 
ware lest  thou  too  ardently  stir  up  my  impatient 
fiery  being !  beware  lest  thou  heap  too  much  fuel 
upon  me ;  once  more  beware,  lest,  instead  of  life,  and 
love,  and  joy,  I  bring  thee  only  death  and  burning 
pain  !  "  And  the  youth  passionately  vowed  to  keep 
her  behest :  and  in  the  beginning  all  went  well. 
How  often,  for  hours  together,  would  he  lie  gazing, 
entranced  toward  the  radiant  beneficent  Fire,  basking 
in  her  warmth,  and  throwing  now  a  leafy  spray,  now 
a  fragment  of  dry  wood,  anon  a  handful  of  odorous 
gums,  as  incense,  upon  the  flame,  which  gracefully 


184 


ETHICAL   FRAGMENTS.      n\ 


•'« 


I"  ,j;  f 


I 


curling  and  waving  upwards,  quivering  and  sparkling, 
seemed  to  whisper  in  return  divine  oracles ;  or  he 
fancied  he  beheld,  while  gazing  into  the  glowing 
depths,  marvellous  shapes,  fairy  visions  dancing  and 
glancing  along.  Then  he  would  sing  to  her  songs 
full  of  love,  and  she,  responding  to  the  song  she  had 
herself  inspired,  sometimes  replied,  in  softest  whispers 
so  loving  and  so  low,  that  even  the  jealous  listening 
woods  could  not  overhear ;  at  other  times  she  would 
shoot  up  suddenly  in  rapturous  splendour,  like  a  pillar 
of  light,  and  revealed  to  him  all  the  wonders  and  the 
beauties  which  lay  around  him,  hitherto  veiled  from 
his  sight.  ,  ,  i.^  ,r?   ^  ,, 

But  at  length,  as  he  became  accustomed  to  the 
glory  and  the  warmth,  and  nothing  more  was  left  for 
the  fire  to  bestow,  or  her  light  to  reveal,  then  he 
began  to  weary  and  to  dream  again  of  the  morning, 
and  to  long  for  the  sun-beams  ;  and-  it  was  to 
him  as  if  the  fire  stood  between  him  and  the  sun's 
light,  and  he  reproached  her  therefore,  and  he  be- 
came moody  and  ungrateful;  and  the  fire  was  no 
longer  the  same,  but  unquiet  and  changeful,  some- 
times flickering  unsteadily,  sometimes  throwing  out  a 
lurid  glare.  And  when  the  youth,  forgetful  of  his 
ministry,  left  the  flame  unfed  and  unsustained,  so 
that  ofttimes  she  drooped  and  waned,  and  crept  in 
dying  gleams  along  the  damp  ground,  his  heart  would 
fail  him  with  a  sudden  remorse,  and  he  would  cast 
on  the  fuel  with  such  a  rough  and  lavish  hand  that 


THE   HUNTER   AMD  THE   riRB. 


135 


the  indignant  fire  hissed  thereat,  and  burst  forth  in  a 
smoky  sullen  gleam, — then  died  away  again.  Then 
the  youth,  half  sorrowful,  half  impatient,  would  re- 
member how  bright,  how  glowing,  how  dazzling  was 
the  flame  in  those  former  happy  days,  when  it  played 
over  his  chilled  and  wearied  limbs,  and  shed  its 
warmth  upon  his  brow,  and  he  desired  eagerly  to  re- 
call that  once  inspiring  glow  And  he  stirred  up  the 
embers  violently  till  they  burned  him,  and  then  he 
grew  angry,  and  then  again  he  wearied  of  all  the 
watching  and  the  care  which  the  subtle,  celestial, 
tameless  element  required  at  his  hand :  and  at  length, 
one  day  in  a  sullen  mood,  he  snatched  up  a  pitcher 
of  water  from  the  fountain  and  poured  it  hastily  on 

the  yet  living  flame. 

For  one  moment  it  arose  blazing  towards  heaven, 
shed  a  last  gleam  tpon  the  pale  brow  of  the  youth, 
and  then  sank  dos^n  in  darkness  extinguished  for 
ever!         ''■''■  '    '■  '-;.,'■■>■  >   --::,, 

♦■  .  ■■■■''.   •:.:•::■.■  '      ■■:v.  ■  ■':/.•  I,',  n  .  -  -    •   ;  ^    ■•„;,; 

^  "       PAULINA. 
FBOM  AN  CMFINISHBD  TALK,  1828. 

And  think'st  thou  that  the  fond  o'erflowing  love 

I  bear  thee  in  my  heart  could  ever  be 
Repaid  by  careless  smiles  that  round  thee  rove, 

And  beam  on  others  as  they  beam  on  me  f 


Oh,  could  I  speak  to  thee  I  could  I  but  tell 
The  nameless  thoughts  that  in  my  bosom  swell, 


,  V 


136  POETICAL   FRAGMENTS.  '< 

And  struggle  for  expression!  or  set  free 
From  the  o'ennastering  spirit's  proud  control 
The  pain  that  throbs  in  silence  at  my  soul, 
Perhaps — yet  no— I  ^eill  not  sue,  nor  bend, 
To  win  a  heartless  pity — Let  it  endl 

'      I  have  been  near  thee  still  at  morn,  at  eve; 
f      Have  mark'd  thee  in  thy  joy,  have  seen  thee  grieye; 
^      Have  seen  thee  gay  with  triumph,  sick  with  fears, 

Radiant  in  beauty,  desolate  in  tears; 

And  communed  with  thy  heart,  till  I  made  mine 

The  echo  and  the  mirror  unto  thine. 
\       And  I  have  sat  and  looked  into  thine  eyes 

As  men  on  earth  look  to  the  starry  skies. 

That  seek  to  read  in  Heaven  their  human  destinies  1 

Too  quickly  I  read  mine, — I  knew  it  well, — 
I  judg*d  not  of  thy  heart  by  all  it  gave, 
But  all  that  it  withheld ;  and  I  could  teU  i  , 

The  very  sea-mark  where  aflfection's  wave 
Would  cease  to  flow,  or  flow  to  ebb  again, 
.  And  knew  my  lavish  love  was  poured  in  vain, 
As  fruitless  streams  o'er  sandy  deserts  melt, 
Unrecompensed,  unvalued,  and  unfelt  t 


LINEB.-1840. 


.':/ 


Take  me,  my  mother  Earth,  to  thy  cold  breast. 
And  fold  me  there  in  everlasting  rest. 

The  long  day  is  o'er  I 

I'm  weary,  I  would  sleep—  ^^ 

But  deep,  deep. 

Never  to  waken  more  f 


LINES. 


187 


I  have  had  joy  and  sorrow ;  I  have  proved 
What  life  could  give ;  have  lov'd,  have  been  beloVd ; 
;     I  am  sick,  and  heart  sore, 

And  weary, — let  me  sleep  I 

But  deep,  deep, 

Never  to  waken  more!  i 


To  thy  dark  chambers,  mo^^aer  Earth,  I  come, 
Prepare  my  dreamless  bed  in  my  last  homo ; 
Shut  down  the  marble  door, 
And  leave  me, — ^let  me  sleep  1 
But  deep,  deep,  ' 

Never  to  waken  more! 


r\ 


Now  I  lie  down, — ^I  close  my  aching  eyes, 
If  on  this  night  another  morn  must  rise. 

Wake  me  not,  I  implore  I 

I  only  ask  to  sleep, 

And  deep,  deep, ' 

Never  to  waken  morel  ' 


■a 


.^ 


.r 


^n 


»•■  -'v 


<■( 


?*■•  w. 


>"   vr'«:^^r'.i!  lW>'jJ^--!*i  f-ifvt'll 


J  > 


] 

♦ 

. 

\.    ,..r: 

• 

*•'* 

/ 

■  ''  ■ 

•    '     --    -- 

"    • 

"  \"V''- 

i 
ii 

"  \         *           .       i_     -- 

1 

*'          "             M-  • 

%\talaixal  ix^mnU. 


-^•-♦- 


'      THE  HEBMIT  AISTD  THE  MINSTEEL. 
(a.  pabable,  fboh  bt.  jzbome.) 

A  CERTAIN  holy  anchorite  had  passed  a  long  life  in 
a  cave  of  the  Thebaid,  remote  from  all  communion 
with  men ;  and  eschewing,  as  he  would  the  gates  of 
Hell,  even  the  very  presence  of  a  woman ;  and  he 
fasted  and  jprayed,  and  performed  many  and  severe 
penances ;  and  his  whole  thought  was  how  he  should 
make  himself  of  account  in  the  sight  of  God,  that  he 
might  enter  into  his  paradise.  '         '  ' 

A.nd  having  lived  this  life  for  three  score  and  ten 
years,  he  was  puffed  up  with  the  notion  of  his  own 
great  virtue  and  sanctity,  and,  like  to  St.  Anthony, 
he  besought  the  Lord  to  show  him  what  saint  he 
should  emulate  as  greater  than  himself,  thinking 
perhaps,  in  his  heart,  that  the  Lord  would  answer 
that  none  was  greater  or  holier.  And  the  same 
night  the  angel  of  God  appeared  to  him,  and  said, 
"  If  thou  wouldst  excel  all  others  in  virtue  and  sane- 


140 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


tity,  tbou  must  strive  to  be  like  a  certain  minstrel 
who  goes  begging  and  singing  from  door  to  door." 

And  the  holy  man  was  in  great  astonishment, 
and  he  arose  and  took  his  staff,  and  ran  forth  in 
search  of  this  minstrel ;  and  when  he  had  found  him 
he  questioned  him  earnestly,  saying,  "  Tell  me,  I  pray 
thee,  my  brother,  what  good  works  thou  hast  per- 
formed in  thy  lifetime,  and  by  what  prayers  and 
penances  thou  hast  made  thyself  acceptable  to  God  ?  " 

And  the  man,  greatly  wondering  and  ashamed  to 
be  so  questioned,  hung  down  his  head  as  he  replied, 
"  I  beseech  thee,  holy  father,  mock  me  not!  I  have 
performed  no  good  works,  and  as  to  praying,  alas ! 
sinner  that  I  am,  I  am  not  worthy  to  pray.  I  do 
nothing  but  go  about  from  door  to  door  amusing  the 
people  with  my  viol  and  my  flute." 

And  the  holy  man  insisted  and  said,  "  Nay,  but 
peradventure  in  the  midst  of  this  thy  evil  life  thou 
hast  done  some  good  works?"  And  the  minstrel 
'Jreplied,  "  I  know  of  nothing  good  that  I  have  done." 
And  the  hermit,  wondering  more  and  more,  said, 
''  How  hast  thou  become  a  beggar :  hast  thou  spent 
thy  substance  in  riotous  living,  like  most  others  of 
thy  calling  ?  "  and  the  man  answering,  said,  "  Nay ; 
but  there  was  a  poor  woman  whom  I  found  running 
hither  and  thither  in  distraction,  for  her  husband  and 
her  children  had  been  sold  into  slavery  to  pay  a  debt. 
And  the  woman  being  very  fair,  certain  sons  of  Be- 
lial pursued  after  her;  so  I  took  her  home  to  my 


THE    HERMIT    AND    THE    MIK6TREL. 


141 


ninstrel 
oor." 
shment, 
forth  in 
ind  him 
»,  I  pray 
ast  per- 
ers  and 
God  ?  " 
Etmed  to 
replied, 
I  have 
ig,  alas ! 
.  I  do 
sing  the 

ay,  but 
ife  thou 
ninstrel 
done." 
,  said, 
1  spent 
lers  of 
"Nay; 
unning 
nd  and 
a  debt, 
of  Be- 
to  my 


hut  and  protected  her  from  them,  and  I  gave  her  all 
I  possessed  to  redeem  her  family,  and  conducted  her 
in  safety  to  the  city,  where  she  was  reunited  to  her 
husband  and  children.  But  what  of  that,  my  father; 
is  there  a  man  who  would  not  have  done  the  same  ?  " 
And  the  hermit,  hearing  the  minstrel  speak  these 
words,  wept  bitterly,  saying,  "  For  my  part,  I  have 
not  done  so  much  good  in  all  niy  life ;  and  yet  they 
call  me  a  man  of  God,  and  thou  art  only  a  poor 
minstrel ! " 

At  Vienna,  some  years  ago,  I  saw  a  picture  by 
Von  Schwind,  which  was  conceived  in  the  spirit 
of  this  old  apologue.  It  exhibited  the  lives  of  two 
twin  brothers  diverging  from  the  cradle.  One  of 
them,  by  profound  study,  becomes  a  most  learned 
and  skilful  physician,  and  ministers  to  the  sick ;  at- 
taining to  great  riches  and  honours  through  his 
labours  and  his  philanthropy.  The  other  brother, 
who  has  no  turn  for  study,  becomes  a  poor  fiddler, 
and  spends  his  life  in  consoling,  by  his  music,  suffer- 
ings beyond  the  reach  of  the  healing  art.  In  the 
end,  the  two  brothers  meet  at  the  close  of  life.  He 
who  had  been  fiddling  through  the  world  is  sick  and 
worn  out :  his  brother  prescribes  for  him,  and  is  seen 
culling  simples  for  his  restoration,  while  the  fiddler 
touches  his  instrument  for  the  solace  of  his  kind 
physician. 

It  ifi  in  such  representations  that  painting  did 


If 


142 


TMBOLOOIOAL    FRAGMENTS. 


onoe  speak,  and  might  again  speak  to  the  hearts  of 
the  people.  .    >     •-  »     -m 

Another  version  of  the  same  thought  we  find  in 
Do  Berenger's  pretty  ballad,  "Xcs  deux  ScBurs  de 


125. 

When  I  was  a  child,  and  read  Milton  for  the  first 
time,  his  Pandemonium  seemed  to  me  a  magnificent 
place.  It  struck  me  more  than  his  Paradise,  for 
that  was  beautiful,  but  Pandemonium  was  terrible 
and  beautiful  too.  The  wondrous  fabric  that  ''  from 
the  earth  rose  like  an  exhalation  to  the  sound  of 
dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet," — the  splendid 
piles  of  architecture  sweeping  line  beyond  line, 
"  Hornice  and  frieze  with  bossy  sculptures  graven," 
— realised  a  certain  picture  of  Palmyra  I  had  once 
seen,  and  which  had  taken  possession  of  my  imagina- 
tion :  then  the  throne,  outshining  the  wealth  of  Or- 
muz  and  of  Ind, — the  flood  of  light  streaming  from 
"  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets  "  quite  tKrew  the 
flames  of  perdition  into  the  shade.  As  it  was  said 
of  Erskine,  that  he  always  spoke  of  Satan  with 
respect,  as  of  a  great  statesman  out  of  place,  a  sort 
of  leader  of  the  Opposition ;  so  to  me  the  grand 
arch-fiend  was  a  hero,  like  my  then  favourite  Greeks 
and  Komans,  a  Cymon,  a  Gurtius,  a  Decius,  devoting 
himself  for  the  good  of  his  country  ; — such  was  the 
moral  confusion  created  in  my  mind.     Pandemonium 


PANDEMONIUM. 


143 


earts  of 

)  find  in 
xurs  de 


the  first 
gnificent 
lise,  for 
terrible 
t  "from 
ound  of 
splendid 
nd    line, 
graven," 
lad  once 
imagina- 
of  Or- 
ng  from 
irew  the 
was  said 
an  with 
e,  a  sort 
e  grand 
Greeks 
levoting 
was  the 
monium 


inspired  no  horror ;  on  the  contrary,  my  fancy  revel- 
led in  the  artistic  beauty  of  the  creation.  I  felt 
that  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  it ;  so  that,  in  fact, 
if  Milton  meant  to  inspire  abhorrence,  he  has  failed, 
even  to  the  height  of  his  sublimity.  Dante  has  suc- 
ceeded better.  Those  who  dwell  with  complacency 
on  the  doctrine  of  eternal  punishments  must  delight 
in  the  ferocity  and  the  ingenuity  of  his  grim  inven- 
tions, worthy  of  a  vengeful  theology.  Wicked  lati- 
tudinarians  may  shudder  and  shiver  at  the  images 
called  up — grotesque,  abominable — hideous — but 
then  Dante  himself  would  sternly  rebuke  them  for 
making  their  human  sympathies  a  measure  for  the 
judgments  of  God,  and  compassion  only  a  veil  for 
treason  and  rebellion :  .  .    .. 

-  "  Chi  6  pia  scellcrato  di  colal  ^ 

Ch'al  giudicio  divln  passion  porta  ?  " 

"  Who  can  show  greater  wickedness  than  be 
"Whose  passion  by  the  will  of  God  is  moved  ?  " 

However,  it  must  be  said  in  favour  of  Dante's  In- 
ferno, that  no  one  ever  wished  to  go  there.  " 
These  be  the  Christian  poets !  but  they  must 
yield  in  d<^pth  of  imagined  horrors  to  the  Christian 
Fathers.  Tertullian  (writing  in  the  second  century) 
not  only  sends  the  wicked  into  that  dolorous  region 
of  despair,  but  makes  the  endless  measureless  torture 
of  the  doomed  a  part  of  the  joys  of  the  redeemed. 
The  spectacle  is  to  give  them  the  same  sort  of  ae- 
light  as  the  heathen  took  in  their  games,  and  Pan- 


144 


THEOLOOIOAL    FRAGMENTS. 


demonium  is  to  be  as  a  vast  amphitheatre  for  the 
amusement  of  the  New  Jerusalem.  "  How  magni- 
fioent/'  exclaims  this  pious  doctor  of  the  Church, 
"  will  be  the  scale  of  that  game  !  With  what  admira- 
tion, what  laughter,  what  glee,  what  triumph,  shall  I 
behold  so  many  mighty  monarohs,  who  had  been 
given  out  as  received  into  the  skies,  moaning  in  un- 
fathomable gloom  I  Persecutors  of  the  Christians 
liquefying  amid  shooting  spires  of  flame !  Philoso- 
phers blushing  before  their  disciples  amid  those 
ruddy  fires!  Then,"  he  goes  on,  still  alluding  to 
the  amphitheatre,  ''  then  is  the  time  to  hear  the 
tragedians  doubly  pathetic,  now  that  they  bewail 
their  own  agonies!  To  observe  actors  released  by 
the  fierceness  of  their  torments  from  all  restraints  on 
their  gestures !  Then  may  we  admire  the  charioteer 
glowing  all  over  in  his  car  of  torture,  and  watch  the 
wrestlers  struggling,  not  in  the  gymnasium,  but  with 
flames ! "  And  he  asks  exultingly,  "  What  praetor, 
or  consul,  or  questor,  or  priest,  can  purchase  you  by 
his  munificence  a  game  of  triumph  like  this  1 " 

And  even  more  terrible  are  the  imaginations  of 
good  Bishop  Taylor,  who  distils  the  essence  from  all 
sins,  all  miseries,  all  sorrows,  all  terrors,  all  plagues, 
and  mingles  them  in  one  chalice  of  wrath  and  ven- 
geance, to  be  held  to  the  lips  and  forced  down  the 
unwilling  throats  of  the  doomed  "  with  violence  of 
devils  and  accursed  spirits  ! "    Are  these  mere  words  ? 


%n 


A    CATHOLIC    ESTAOLISIIMBNT. 


145 


B  for  the 
vf  magni- 

Church, 
.t  ttdmira- 
h,  shall  I 
bad  been 
Dg  in  un- 
llbristians 

Fhiloso- 
lid  those 
luding  to 

hear  the 
3y  bewail 
leased  by 
traints  on 
charioteer 
ivatch  the 
,  but  with 
it  praetor, 
le  you  by 

0  J)    ,      .  - 

lations  of 
e  from  all 
L  plagues, 

and  ven- 
down  the 

olence  of 
re  words  ? 


Did  any  one  over  fancy  or  try  to  realise  what  they 
oipresu? 


•f  ...>;.-' 


126. 


I  WAS  surprised  to  find  this  passage  in  one  of 
Southey's  letters : — 

''  A  Catholic  Establishment  would  be  the  best, 
perhaps  the  only  means  of  civilising  Ireland.  Jesuits 
and  Benedictines,  though  they  would  not  enlighten 
the  savages,  would  humanise  them  and  bring  the 
country  into  cultivation.  A  petition  that  asked  for 
this,  saying  plainly,  '  We  are  Papists,  and  will  be 
so,  and  this  is  the  best  thing  that  can  be  done  for  us 
and  you  too,'-^such  a  petition  I  would  support,  con- 
sidering what  the  present  condition  of  Ireland  is, 
how  wretchedly  it  has  always  been  governed,  and 
how  hopeless  the  prospect."     (1805.) 

Southey  was  thinking  of  what  the  religious  orders 
had  done  for  Paraguay;  whether  he  would  have 
penned  the  same  sentiments  twenty  or  even  ten  years 
later,  is  more  than  doubtful. 

127. 

The  old  monks  and  penitents — dirty,  ugly,  ema- 
ciated old  fellows  they  wer*  ! — spent  their  days  in 
speaking  and  preaching  of  their  own  and  others'  sin- 
fulness, yet  seem  to  have  had  ever  present  before 
them  a  standard  of  beauty,  brightness,  beneficence, 

7 


146 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


aspirations  which  nothing  earthly  could  satisfy,  which 
made  their  ideas  of  sinfulness  and  misery  compara- 
tive^ and  their  scale  was  graduated  from  themselves 
upivarcls.  We  philosophers  reverse  this.  Wo  teach 
and  preach  the  spiritual  dignity,  the  lofty  capabilities 
of  humanity.  Yet,  by  some  mistake,  we  seem  to  be 
always  speculating  on  the  amount  of  evil  which  may 
or  can  be  endured,  and  on  the  amount  of  wickedness 
which  may  or  must  be  tolerated ;  and  our  scale  is 
graduated  from  ourselves  doiomvards.      ^^  ^  .,>r  -s-^ 

'    <;,*."'  .\''y'   ".  ■'■■  ■  .-   '  -       ■,  v;;  ,.,.-.„  -     ,  ■     .  ^'7;-. -''n:^ 

.       ■        .       •    ^    ^.      ,■  ■      -J  128.  ':,':..,  -     •       •:,,     ,,i';;:t 

"  So  long  as  the  ancient  mythology  had  any  sepa- 
rate establishment  in  the  empire,  the  spiritual  wor- 
ship which  our  religion  demands,  and  so  essentially 
implies  as  only  fitting  for  it,  was  preserved  in  its 
purity  by  means  of  the  salutary  contrast ;  but  no 
sooner  had  the  Church  become  completely  trium- 
phant and  exclusive,  and  the  parallel  of  Pagan  idolatry 
totally  removed,  than  the  old  constitutional  appetite 
revived  in  all  its  original  force,  and  after  a  short  but 
famous  struggle  with  the  Iconoclasts,  an  image  wor- 
ship was  established,  and  consecrated  by  bulls  and 
canons,  which,  in  whatever  light  it  is  regarded,  dif- 
fered in  no  respect  but  the  names  of  its  objects  from 
that  which  had  existed^br  so  many  ages  as  the  chief 
characteristic  of  the  religious  faith  of  the  Gentiles." 
— H.  Nelson  Coleridge.  «.«\t-i 

I  think,  with  submission,  that  it  differed  in  lenti- 


fy,  wbioh 
wnpara- 
emselves 
^Vo  teach 
pabilitica 
lera  to  be 
iiich  may 
Lckedness 
>  scale  is 


■  i^i 


"Y     •■Uii 


any  sepa- 
tual  wor- 
ssentially 
ed  in  its 
;  but  no 
y  trium- 
1  idolatry 

appetite 
ibort  but 
lage  wor- 
mlls  and 
rded,  dif- 
jcts  from 
bbe  chief 

entiles." 

in  lenti- 


A    NARROW   REASON. 


147 


ment ;  for  in  the  mythology  of  the  Pagans  the  wor- 
ship was  to  beauty^  immortality ^  and  power^  and  in 
the  Christian  mythology — if  I  may  call  it  so — of 
the  Middle  Ages,  the  worship  was  to  purity^  self- 
denial^  and  charity. 


'■•■■>'■ 


129. 


"  A  NARROW  half-enlightened  reason  may  easily 
make  sport  of  all  those  forms  in  which  religious  faith 
has  been  clothed  by  human  imagination,  and  ask  why 
they  are  retained,  and  why  one  should  be  preferred 
to  another  ?  It  is  sufficient  to  reply,  that  some  forms 
there  must  be  if  Religion  is  to  endure  as  a  social  in- 
fluence, and  that  the  forms  already  in  existence  are 
the  best,  if  they  are  in  unison  with  human  sympathies, 
and  express,  with  the  breadth  and  vagueness  which 
every  popular  utterance  must  from  its  nature  possess, 
the  interior  convictions  of  the  general  mind.  What 
would  become  of  the  most  sacred  truth,  if  all  the 
forms  which  have  harboured  it  were  destroyed  at  once 
by  an  unrelenting  reason,  and  it  were  driven  naked 
and  shivering  about  the  earth  till  some  clever  logician 
had  devised  a  suitable  abode  for  its  reception  ?  It 
is  on  these  outward  forms  of  religion  that  the  spirit 
of  artistic  beauty  descends,  and  moulds  them  into 
fitting  expressions  of  the  invisible  grace  and  majesty 
of  spiritual  truth." — Prospective  Review^  Feb.  24, 
1845..'  • 


148 


THEOLOGICAL    FRAGMENTS. 


HA'f 


B^4 


i' 


-..■■ 


4 


130. 

'*  Have  not  Dying  Ghrists  taught  fortitude  to  the 
virtuous  su£ferer  1  Have  not  Holy  Families  cherished 
and  ennobled  domestic  a£fections  ?  The  tender 
genius  of  the  Christian  morality,  even  in  its  most 
degenerate  state,  has  made  the  Mother  and  her  Child 
the  highest  objects  of  affectionate  superstition.  How 
much  has  that  beautiful  superstition  by  the  pencils 
of  great  artists  contributed  to  humanise  mankind  ?  " 
— Sir  James  Mackintosh^  writing  in  1802. 


131. 


\ 


I  REMEMBER  oucc  at  Mcrton  College  Chapel 
(May,  1844),  while  Archdeacon  Manning  was  preach- 
ing an  eloquent  sermon  on  the  eternity  of  reward  and 
punishment  in  the  future  life,  I  was  looking  at  the 
row  of  windows  opposite,  and  I  saw  that  there  were 
seven,  all  different  in  pattern  and  construction,  yet 
all  harmonising  with  each  other  and  with  the  build- 
ing of  which  they  formed  a  part; — a  symbol  they 
might  have  been  of  differences  in  the  Church  of  Christ. 
From  the  varied  windowb^  opposite  I  looked  down  to 
the  faces  of  the  congregation,  all  upturned  to  the 
preacher,  with  expression  how  different  i  Faith,  hope, 
fear,  in  the  open  mouths  and  expanded  eyelids  of 
some ;  a  sort  of  silent  protest  in  the  compressed  lips 
and  knitted  brows  of  others;  a  speculative  in^ 
quiry    and    interest,    or    merely    admiring    aoqui- 


flc* 


RKLIOIOUS  DIFFERENCES. 


140 


de  to  the 
iherished 
)  tender 
its  most 
ler  Child 
Q.  How 
e  pencils 
mkind  ?  " 


3   Chapel 
is  preach- 
ward  and 
at  the 
lere  were 
etion,  yet 
le  build- 
ibol  they 
of  Christ, 
down  to 
1  to  the 
ith,  hope, 
)relids  of 
ssed  lips 
tive    in- 
acqui- 


escence  in  others ;  as  the  high  or  low,  the  wide  or 
contracted  head  prevailed ;  and  all  this  diversity  in 
organisation,  in  habits  of  thought,  in  expression,  har- 
monised for  the  time  by  one  predominant  object,  one 
feeling !  the  hungry  sheep  looking  up  to  be  fed ! 
When  I  sigh  over  apparent  disagreement,  let  me 
think  of  those  windows  in  Merton  College  Chapel, 
and  the  same  light  from  heaven  streaming  through 
them  all ! — and  of  that  assemblage  of  human  faces, 
uplifted  with  the  same  aspiration  one  and  all ! 

132. 

T  HAVE  just  read  the  article  (by  Sterling,  I  be- 
ti  .)  in  the  "Edinburgh  Review  "for  July;  and, 
as  it  chanced,  this  same  evening,  Dr.  Channing^s 
"  Discourse  on  the  Church,"  aud  Captain  Macono- 
chie's  "  Eeport  on  Secondary  Punishments  "  from 
Sydney,  came  before  me. 

And  as  I  laid  them  down,  oi;e  after  another,  this 
thought  struck  me: — that  about  the  same  time,  m 
three  different  and  far  divided  regions  of  the  globe, 
three  men,  one  military,  the  other  an  ecclesiastic,  the 
third  a  lawyer,  and  belonging  apparently  to  different 
religious  denominations,  all  gave  utterance  to  nearly 
the  same  sentiments  in  regard  to  a  Christian  Church. 
Chaining  says,  "  A  church  destined  to  endure  through 
all  ages,  to  act  on  all,  to  blend  itself  with  new  forms 
of  society,  and  with  the  highest  improvements  of  the 
race,  cannot  be  expected  to  ordain  an  immutable 


^    • 


%i^ 


150 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAGMENTS,      u 


mode  of  administration,  but  must  leave  its  modes  of 
worship  and  communion  to  conform  themselves  silently 
and  gradually  to  the  wants  and  progress  of  humanity. 
The  rites  and  arrangements  which  suit  one  period 
lose  their  significance  or  efficiency  in  another;  the 
forms  which  minister  to  the  mind  now  may  fetter  it 
hereafter,  and  must  give  place  to  its  free  unfolding," 
&c.,  and  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

The  reviewer  says,  "  We  believe  that  in  the  judg- 
ment of  an  enlightened  charity,  many  Christian 
societies  who  are  accustomed  to  denounce  each  other's 
errors,  will  at  length  come  to  be  regarded  as  members 
in  common  of  one  great  and  comprehensive  Church, 
in  which  diversity  of  forms  are  harmonised  by  an  all- 
pervading  unity  of  spirit."  And  more  to  the  same 
purpose.  The  soldier  and  reformer  says,  "  I  believe 
there  may  be  error  because  there  must  be  imper- 
fection in  the  religious  faith  of  the  best  among  us ; 
but  that  the  degree  of  this  error  is  not  vital  in  any 
(ihristian  denomination  seems  demonstrable  by  the 
bfeSt  fruits  of  faith — good  works — being  evidenced 
by  all." 

fit  is  pleasant  to  see  benign  spirits  divided  in 
Inion,  but  harmonised  by  faith,"  thus  standing  hand 
in  hand  upon  a  shore  of  peace,  and  looking  out  to- 
gether in  serene  hope  for  the  dawning  of  a  better 
day,  instead  of  rushing  forth,  each  with  his  own  far- 
thing candle,  under  pretence  of  illuminating  the  world 


^H^ 


^ 


EXPANSIVB   CHRISTIANITY. 


151 


Qodes  of 
)  silently 
iimanity. 
e  period 
ler ;  the 
fetter  it 
folding," 

the  judg- 
^hristian 
h  other's 
members 
Church, 
►y  an  all- 
the  same 
[  believe 

imper- 
long  us ; 
il  in  any 

by  the 
ridenced 

Tided  in 
ng  hand 
out  to- 
i  better 
»wn  far- 
le  world 


— every  one  even  more  intent  on  putting  out  his 
neighbour's  light  than  on  guarding  his  own. 

(Nov.  16,  1841.) 

While  the  idea  of  possible  harmony  in  the  uni- 
versal Church  of  Christ  (by  which  I  mean  all  who 
accept  His  teaching  and  are  glad  to  bear  His  name) 
is  gaining  ground  theoretically,  practically  it  seems 
more  and  more  distant;  since  1841  (when  the  above 
was  written)  the  divergence  is  greater  than  ever ; 
and,  as  in  politics,  moderate  opinions  appear  (since 
1 848)  to  merge  on  either  side  into  the  extremes  of 
ultra  conservatism  and  ultra  radicalism,  as  fear  of 
the  past  or  hope  of  the  future  predominates,  so  it  is 
in  the  Church.  The  sort  of  dualism  which  prevails 
in  politics  and  religion  might  give  some  colour  to 
Lord  Lindsay's  theory  of  "progress  through  an- 
tagonism." 

..:..•'•*■  ,  183.         ^     '■  .  «         i 

...  ^ ../    •  _.»■•;-'■-..■ 

I  INCLINE  to  agree  with  those  who  think  it  a  gmat 
mistake  to  consider  the  present  condition  or  concep- 
tion of  Christianity  as  complete  and  final :  like  the 
human  soul  to  which  it  was  fitted  by  Divine  love 
and  wisdom,  it  has  an  immeasurable  capacity  of  de- 
velopment, and  "  The  Lord  hath  more  truth  yet  to 
break  forth  out  of  his  Holy  Word." 


% 


i.'M 


::^m> 


«*■ 


^ 


152 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAGMENTS.       (I 


f       111' 
"5f   fill 


184. 
"  The  nations  of  the  present  age  T^ant  not  less 
religion,  but  mo7'e.  They  do  not  wish  for  less  com- 
munity with  the  Apostolic  times,  but  for  more ;  but 
above  all,  they  ^vant  their  wounds  healed  by  a  Chris- 
tianity showing  a  life-renewing  vitality  allied  to  reason 
And  conscience,  and  ready  and  able  to  reform  the 
social  relations  of  life,  beginning  with  the  domestic 
and  culminating  with  the  political.  They  want  no 
negations,  but  positive  reconstruction — no  conven- 
tionality, but  an  honest  bond  fide  foundation,  deep  as 
the  human  mind,  and  a  structure  free  and  organic  as 
nature.  In  the  meantime  let  no  national  form  be 
urged  as  identical  with  divine  truth,  let  no  dogmatic 
formula  oppress  conscience  and  reason,  and  let  no 
corporation  of  priests,  no  set  of  dogmatists,  sow  dis- 
cord and  hatred  in  the  sacred  communities  of  do- 
mestic and  national  life.  This  view  cannot  be  ob- 
tained without  national  efforts,  Christian  educa- 
tion, free  institutions,  and  social  reforms.  Then  no 
zeal  will  be  called  Christian  which  is  not  hallowed 
by  charity, — no  faith  Christian  which  is  not  sanc- 
tioned by  reason." — Hypolitus.  ' 

"  Any  author  who  in  our  times  treats  theological 
and  ecclesiastical  subjects  frankly,  and  therefore  with 
reference  to  the  problems  of  the  age,  must  expect  to 
be  ignored,  and  if  that  cannot  be  done,  abused  and 
reviled."  .  ' 


iA^ 


EXPANSIVE   OHRISTIANITT. 


153 


)ect  to 
;d  and 


The  same  is  true  of  moral  suljects  on  which  strong 
prejudices  (or  shall  I  say  strong  convictions  ?)  exist 
in  minds  not  very  strong. 

It  is  not  perhaps  of  so  much  consequence  what  we 
believe,  as  it  is  important  that  we  believe ;  that  we 
do  not  a£fect  to  believe,  and  so  belie  our  own  souls. 
Belief  is  not  always  in  our  power,  but  truth  is. 


186. 


'Hi:' 


It  seems  an  arbitrary  limitation  of  the  design  of 
Christianity  to  assume,  as  Priestley  does,  that  ''  it 
consists  solely  in  the  revelation  of  a  future  life  con- 
firmed by  the  bodily  resurrection  of  Christ."  This 
is  truly  a  very  material  view  of  Christianity.  If  I 
were  to  be  sure  of  annihilation,  I  should  not  be  less 
certain  of  the  truth  of  Christianity  as  a  system  of 
morals  exquisitely  adapted  for  the  improvement  and 
happiness  of  man  as  an  individual;  and  equally 
adapted  to  conduce  to  the  amelioration  and  progres- 
sive happiness  of  mankind  as  a  species. 


:%~      Vi, 


■yXk 


»*■'-"' 


154 


THXOLOOICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


n 


N0TE8  FEOM  VARIOUS  SEEM0N9, 

MADE  ON  TUB  BPOT; 
SHOWIlfO  BOIOC  TUINOB  IN  WBIOU  ALL  GOOD  MEK  ASK  AOBIKD. 


I.  •  > 

From  a  Roman  Catholic  Sermon.  ^ 

When  travelling  in  Ireland,  I  stayed  over  one 
Sunday  in  a  certain  town  in  the  north,  and  rambled 
out  early  in  the  morning.  It  was  cold  and  wet,  the 
streets  empty  and  quiet,  but  the  sound  of  voices 
drew  me  in  one  direction,  down  a  court  where  was  a 
Boman  Catholic  chapel.  It  was  so  crowded  that 
many  of  the  congregation  stood  round  the  door. 
I  remarked  among  them  a  number  of  soldiers  and 
most  miserable-looking  women.  All  made  way  for 
me  with  true  national  courtesy,  and  I  entered  at  the 
moment  the  priest  was  finishing  mass,  and  about  to 
begin  his  sermon.  There  was  no  pulpit,  and  he 
stood  on  the  step  of  the  altar ;  a  fine  looking  man, 
with  bright  face,  a  sonorous  voice,  and  a  very 
strong  Irish  accent.  His  text  was  from  Matt.  v. 
43,  44.        ^  !' 

He  began  by  explaining  what  Christ  really  meant 
by  the  words  "  Love  thy  neighbour."  Then  drew  a 
picture  in  contrast  of  hatred  and  dissension,  com- 
mencing with  dissension  in  families,  between  kin- 
dred, and  between  husband  and  wife.     Then  made  a 


BICD. 


AN    IRISH    SERMON. 


166 


)ver  one 

rambled 

wet,  the 

f  voices 

re  was  a 

led  that 

le   door. 

iers  and 

way  for 

d  at  the 

ibout  to 

and  he 

3g  man, 

a  very 

SlvAi.  V. 

y  meant 
drew  a 
n,  corn- 
sen  kin- 
made  a 


most  touching  appeal  in  behalf  of  children  brought 
up  in  an  atmosphere  of  contention  where  no  love  is. 
''  God  help  them  i  God  pity  them !  small  chance  for 
them  of  being  either  good  or  happy  !  for  their  young 
I'.earts  are  saddened  and  soured  with  strife,  and  they 
eat  their  bread  in  bitterness  I " 

Then  he  preached  patience  to  the  wives,  indul- 
gence to  the  husbands,  and  denounced  scolds  and 
quarrelsome  women  in  a  manner  that  seemed  to 
glance  at  recent  events  :  "  When  ye  are  found  in  the 
streets  vilifying  and  slandering  one  another,  ay, 
and  fighting  and  tearing  each  other's  hair,  do  ye 
think  ye're  women  ?  no,  ye're  not  I  ye're  devils  in- 
carnate, and  ye'U  go  where  the  devils  will  be  fit 
companious  for  ye  !  "  &c.  (Here  some  women  near 
me,  with  long  black  hair  streaming  down,  fell  upon 
their  knees,  sobbing  with  contrition.)  He  then  went 
on,  in  the  same  strain  of  homely  eloquence,  to  the 
evils  of  political  and  religious  hatred,  and  quoted  the 
text,  "  If  it  be  possible,  as  much  as  lieth  in  you, 
live  peaceably  with  all  men."  "  I'm  a  Catholic,"  he 
went  on,  ''  and  I  believe  in  the  truth  of  my  own 
religion  above  all  others.  I'm  convinced,  .by  long 
study  and  observation,  it's  the  best  that  is;  but 
what  then  ?  Do  ye  think  I  hate  my  neighbour  be- 
cause he  thinks  differently  ?  Do  yo  think  I  mane  to 
force  my  religion  down  other  people's  throats  ?  If  I 
were  to  preach  such  uncharity  to  ye,  my  people, 
you  wouldn't  listen  to  me,  ye  oughtn't  to  listen  to 


106 


THBOLOOIOAL   VRAQIISNTS. 


h 


me.     Did  Jesus  Christ  force  His  religion  down  other  z 
people's  throats  ?     Not  He  I  He  endured  all,  He  was  r 
kind  to  all,  even  to  the  wicked  Jews  that  afterwards  c 
crucified  Him."     "  If  you  say  you  can't  love  your 
neighbour  because  he's  your  enemy,  and  has  injured 
you,  what  does  that  mane  ?  '  ye  canH !  ye  can't  / '  as 
if  that  excuse  will  serve  God !  hav'n't  ye  done  more  $ 
and  worse  against  Him  ?  and  didn't  He  send  His  only 
Son  into  the  world  to  redeem  ye  ?     My  good  people, 
you're  all  sprung  from  one  stock,  all  sons  of  Adam , 
all  related  to  one  another.     When  God  created  Eve, 
mightn't  he  have  made  her  out  of  any  thing,  a  stock 
or  a  stone,  or  out  of  nothing  at  all,  at  all  ?  but  ho 
took  one  of  Adam's  ribs  and  moulded  her  out  of 
that,  and  gave  her  to  him,  just  to  show  that  we're 
all  from  one  original,  all  related  together,  men  and 
women.  Catholics  and  Protestants,  Jews  and  Turks 
and  Christians ;  all  bone  of  one  bone,  and  flesh  of 
one  flesh !  "     He  then  insisted  and  demonstrated  that  . 
all  the  miseries  of  life,  all  the  sorrows  and  mistakes 
of  men,  women,  and  children ;  and,  in  particular,  all  - 
the  disasters  of  Ireland,  the  bankrupt  landlords,  the 
religious  dissensions,  the  fights  domestic  and  political, 
the  rich  without  thought  for  the  poor,  and  the  poor    • 
without  food  or  work,  all  arose  from  nothing  but  the 
want  of  love.     "  Down  on  your  knees,"  he  exclaimed,  ^ 
"  and  ask  God's  mercy  and  pardon ;  and,  as  ye  hope 
to  find  it,  ask  pardon  one  of  another  for  every  angry  : 
word  ye  have  spoken,  for  every  uncharitable  thought  ■; 


ST.  JOHN   THE   BAPTIST. 


167 


other  :: 
[ewas  V 
wards 
I  your 
Qjured  ) 
/  / '  as 
)  more  n: 
is  only 
eople, 
\dam, 
1  Eve, 
I  stock  \ 
but  ho 
Dut  of 
;  we're 
m  and 
Turks 
sh  of 
dthat 
istakes 
ar,  all 
ds,  the 
itical, 
poor 
lut  the 
aimed, 
3  hope 
angry 
ought 


that  has  oome  into  your  minds ;  and  if  any  man  or 
woman  have  aught  against  his  neighbour,  na  matter 
what,  let  it  be  plucked  out  of  his  heart  before  he 
laves  this  place,  let  it  be  forgotten  at  the  door  of 
this  chapel.  Let  me,  your  pastor,  have  no  more 
rason  to  be  ashamed  of  you ;  as  if  I  were  set  over 
wild  bastes,  instead  of  Christian  men  and  women  I " 

After  more  in  this  fervid  strain,  which  I  cannot 
recollect,  he  gave  his  blessing  in  the  same  earnest, 
heartfelt  manner.  I  never  saw  a  congregation  more 
attentive,  more  reverent,  and  apparently  more 
touched  and  edified.     (1848.) 

'  11. 

From  another  Roman  Catholic  SermoHj  delivered  in 
the  private  chapel  of  a  Nobleman. 

This  Discourse  was  preached  on  the  festival  of 
St.  John  the  Baptist,  and  was  a  summary  of  his 
doctrine,  life,  and  character.  The  text  was  taken 
from  St.  Luke,  iii.  9.  to  14.;  in  which  St.  John 
answers  the  question  of  the  people,  "  what  shall  we 
do  then  ? "  by  a  brief  exposition  of  their  several 
duties. 

*'  What  is  most  remarkable  in  all  this,"  said  the 
priest,  "  is  truly  that  there  is  nothing  very  remarkable 
in  it.  The  Baptist  required  from  his  hearers  very 
simple  and  very  familiar  duties — such  as  he  was 
not  the  first  to  preach,  such  as  had  been  recognised 


i8?ii 


IM 


THKOLOOIOAL   TRAOMENTS. 


as  duties  by  all  religions;  and  do  you  think  that 
those  who  were  neither  Jews  nor  Christians  were, 
therefore  left  without  any  religion  ?  No  I  never  did 
God  leave  any  of  his  creatures  without  religion ;  they, 
could  not  utter  the  words  rig/it^  wrong, — beautiful, 
hateful,  without  recognising  a  religion  written  by 
God  on  their  hearts  from  the  beginning — a  religion 
which  existed  before  the  preaching  of  John,  before 
the  coming  of  Christ,  and  of  which  the  appearance  of 
John,  and  the  doctrine  and  sacrifice  of  Christ,  were 
but  the  fulfilment.  For  Christ  came  to  fulfil  the 
law,  not  to  destroy  it.  Do  you  ask  what  law  ?  Not 
the  law  of  Moses,  but  the  universal  law  of  God's 
moral  truth  written  in  our  hearts.  It  is,  my  friends, 
a  folly  to  talk  of  natural  religion  as  of  something 
different  from  revealed  religion. 

"  The  great  proof  of  the  truth  of  John's  mission 
lies  in  its  comprehensiveness :  men  and  women,  ar- 
tisans and  soldiers,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  young 
and  the  old,  gathered  to  him  in  the  wilderness ; 
and  he  included  all  in  his  teaching,  for  he  was 
sent  to  all ;  and  the  best  proof  of  the  truth  of  his 
teaching  lies  in  its  harmony  with  that  law  already 
written  in  the  heart  and  the  conscience  of  man. 
When  Christ  came  afterwards,  he  preached  a  doctrine 
more  sublime,  with  a  more  authoritative  voice ;  but 
here,  also,  the  best  proof  we  have  of  the  truth  of 
that  divine  teaching  lies  in  this — that  he  had  pre- 


AN    BMOL18II   8BRM0K. 


150 


pftred  from  the  beginning  the  heart  and  the  oon- 
science  of  man  to  harmonise  with  it." 

This  was  a  very  curious  sermon ;  quiet,  elegant, 
and  learned,  with  a  good  deal  of  Baored  and  profane 
history  introduced  in  illustration,  which  I  am  sorry 
I  cannot  remember  in  detail.  It  made,  however,  no 
appeal  to  feeling  or  to  practice ;  and  after  llsteninj^:;; 
to  it,  we  all  went  in  to  luncheon  r.vd  dif^u3:sef!  our 
newspapers.  •** 

.  r.  III. 


*,:f. 


^•^9  f> 


1^^. 


Fragments  of  a  Sermon  {Anglican  Church). 

Text,  Luke  iv.,  from  the  14th  to  the  18th,  but  move  eapee'^Uy 
the  18th  verse.    Tliis  sermon  was  extempore. 

The  preacher  began  by  observing,  that  our  Lord's 
sermon  at  Nazareth  established  the  second  of  two 
principles.  By  his  sermon  from  the  Mount,  'u  v/hich 
he  had  addressed  the  multitude  in  the  open  air,  under 
the  vault  of  the  blue  heaven  alone,  he  has  left  to  us 
the  principle  that  all  places  are  fitted  for  the  service 
of  God,  and  that  all  places  may  be  sa:i^tiiied  by  the 
preaching  of  his  truth.  While,  by  his.  se.vmoii  ii  t\Ui 
Synagogue  (that  which  is  recorde'l  »;>'  St.  Liiko  in 
this  passage),  he  has  established  aic  principle,  that  it 
is  right  to  set  apart  a  plac>)  to  assemble  together  in 
worship  and  to  li&ten  to  instruction ;  and  it  is  ob- 
servable that  on  this  occasion  our  Saviour  taught  in 
the  synagogue,  where  there  was   no  sacrifice,  no 


s 


160 


THEOLOOIOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


'W^ 


ministry  of  the  priests,  as  in  the  Temple ;  but  where 
a  portion  of  the  law  and  the  prophets  might  be  read 
by  any  man ;  and  any  man,  even  a  stranger  (as  he 
was  himself),  might  be  called  upon  to  expound. 

Then  reading  impressively  the  whole  of  the  nar- 
rative down  to  the  32nd  verse,  the  preacher  closed 
the  sacred  volume,  and  went  on  to  this  effect : — 

"  There  are  two  orders  of  evil  in  the  world — Sin 
and  Crime.  Of  the  second,  the  world  takes  strict 
cognisance ;  of  the  first,  it  takes  comparatively  little ; 
yet  that  is  worst  in  the  eyes  of  God.  There  are  two 
orders  of  temptation:  the  temptation  which  assails 
our  lower  nature — our  appetites;  the  temptation 
which  assails  our  higher  nature — our  intellect.  The 
Jirstf  leading  to  sin  in  the  body,  is  punished  in  the 
body, — the  consequence  being  pain,  disease,  death. 
The  second,  leading  to  sins  of  the  soul,  as  pride 
chiefly,  uncharitableness,  selfish  sacrifice  of  others  to 
our  own  interests  or  purposes, — is  punished  in  the 
soul — in  the. Hell  of  the  Spirit." 

(All  this  part  of  his  discourse  very  beautiful, 
earnest,  eloquent;  but  I  regretted  that  he  did  not 
follow  out  the  distinction  he  began  with  between  sin 
and  crime,  and  the  views  and  deductions,  religious 
and  moral,  which  that  distinction  leads  to.) 

He  continued  to  this  effect:  "  Christ  said  that  it 
was  a  part  of  his  mission  to  heal  the  broken-hearted. 
What  is  meant  by  the  phrase  "a  broken  heart?" 
He  illustrated  it  by  the  story  of  Eli,  and  by  the  wife 


AN   ENGLISH   SERMON. 


161 


b  ^here 
be  read 
(as  he 
1 

he  nar- 
r  closed 

Id— Sin 

s  strict 

J  little ; 

are  two 

assails 

iptation 

t.     The 

I  in  the 

,  death. 

,s  pride 

lers  to 

in  the 

autiful, 
iid  not 
een  sin 
eligious 

that  it 
learted. 
eart?" 
10  wife 


of  Fhineas,  both  of  whom  died  broken  in  heart; 
*'  and  our  Saviour  himself  died  on  the  cross  heart- 
broken by  sorrow  rather  than  by  physical  torture." — 

(I  lost  something  here  because  I  was  questioning 
and  doubting  within  myself,  for  I  have  always  had 
the  thought  that  Christ  must  have  been  glad  to  die.) 

He  went  on  : — "  To  heal  the  broken-hearted  is  to 
say  to  those  who  are  beset  by  the  remembrance  and 
the  misery  of  sin,  '  My  brother,  the  past  is  past — 
think  not  of  it  to  thy  perdition ;  arise  and  sin  no 
more.' "  (All  this,  and  more  to  the  same  purpose, 
wonderfully  beautiful !  and  I  became  all  soul — sub- 
dued to  listen.)  "  There  are  two  ways  of  meeting 
the  pressure  of  misery  and  heart-break :  first,  by 
trusting  to  time"  (then  followed  a  quotation  from 
Schiller's  "  Wallenstein,"  in  reference  to  grief,  which 
sounded  strange,  and  yet  beautiful,  from  the  pulpit, 
"  Was  verschmerzte  nicht  der  Mensch  ?  " — what  can- 
not man  grieve  down  ?) ;  "  secondly,  by  defiance  and 
resistance,  setting  oneself  resolutely  to  endure.  But 
Christ  taught  a  different  way  from  either — by  sub- 
mission— by  the  complete  surrender  of  our  whole 
being  to  the  will  of  God. 

"  The  next  part  of  Christ's  mission  was  to  preach 
deliverance  to  the  captives."  (Then  followed  a  most 
eloquent  and  beautiful  exposition  of  Christian  free- 
dom— of  who  were  free ;  and  who  were  not  free,  but 
properly  spiritual  captives.)  "  To  be  content  within 
limitations  is  freedom ;  to  desire  beyond  those  limita- 


162 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


U 


tions  is  bondage.  The  bird  which  is  content  within 
her  cage  is  free ;  the  bird  which  can  fly  from  tree  to 
tree,  yet  desires  to  soar  like  the  eagle, — the  eagle 
which  can  ascend  to  the  mountain  peak,  yet  desires 
to  reach  the  height  of  that  sun  on  which  his  eye  is 
fixed, — these  are  in  bondage.  The  man  who  is  not 
content  within  his  sphere  of  duties  and  powers,  but 
feels  his  faculties,  his  position,  his  profession,  a  per- 
petual trammel, — he  is  spiritually  in  bondage.  The 
only  freedom  is  the  freedom  of  the  soul,  content 
within  its  external  limitations,  and  yet  elevated  spi' 
ritually  far  above  them  by  the  inward  powers  and 
impulses  which  lift  him  up  to  God." 


IV. 


Recollections  of  another  Church  of  England  Sermon 

L n^-; ■., V;'-f  t iv ;;  -: :■     <prea£hed  extempore. '■' '■'■  ■ "' - ■ ' "' ■'-' ''"^ "'^^ ' -'■ 

The  text  was  taken  from  Matt,  xil  42 :  **  The  Queen  of  the 
South  shall  rise  up  in  the  judgment  with  this  generation, 
and  shall  condemn  it,"  <fcc. 

The  preacher  began  by  drawing  that  distinction 
between  knowledge  and  wisdom  which  so  many  com- 
prehend and  allow,  and  so  few  apply.  He  then 
described  the  two  parties  in  the  great  question  of 
popular  education.  Those  who  would  base  all  human 
progress  on  secular  instruction,  on  knowledge  in 
contradistinction  to  ignorance,  as  on  light  opposed  to 
darkness ; — and  the  mistake  of  those  who,  taking  the 


SOLOMON   AND  THE   QUEEN    OF-  8HBBA. 


163 


i  witliia 
tree  to 
le  eagle 
desires 
}  eye  is 
0  is  not 
era,  but 
I,  a  per- 
e.  The 
content 
ted  spi- 
ers and 

Sertnon 

of  the 
neration, 

inction 
ay  com- 
e  then 
tion  of 
human 
dge  in 
osed  to 
ing  the 


contrary  extreme,  denounce  all  secular  instruction 
imparted  to  the  poor  as  dangerou^i,  or  contemn  it  as 
useless.  The  error  of  those  who  t'l'-eer  at  the  triumph 
of  intellect  he  termed  a  species  of  idiocy ;  and  the 
error  of  those  who  do  not  see  the  insufficiency  of 
knowledge,  blind  presumption.  Then  he  contrasted 
worldly  wisdom  and  spiritual ;  with  a  flow  of  gor- 
geous eloquence  he  enlarged  on  the  picture  of  worldly 
wisdom  as  exhibited  in  the  character  of  Solomon, 
and  of  intellect,  and  admiration  for  intellect,  in  the 
character  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  "  In  what  con- 
sisted the  wisdom  of  Solomon?  He  made,  as  the 
sacred  history  assures  us,  three  thousand  proverbs, 
mostly  prudential  maxims  relating  to  conduct  in  life; 
the  use  and  abuse  of  riches ;  prosperity  and  adver- 
sity. His  acquirements  in  natural  philosophy  seem 
to  have  been  confined  to  the  appearances  of  material 
and  visible  things ;  the  herbs  and  trees,  the  beasts 
and  birds,  the  creeping  things  and  fishes.  His  poli- 
tical wisdom  consisted  in  increasing  his  wealth,  his 
dominions,  and  the  number  of  his  subjects  and  cities. 
On  his  temple  he  lavished  all  that  art  had  then 
accomplished,  and  on  his  own  house  a  world  of  riches 
in  gold,  and  silver,  and  precious  things :  but  all  was 
done  for  his  own  glory — nothing  for  the  improvement 
or  the  happiness  of  his  people,  who  were  ground 
down  by  taxes,  suffered  in  the  midst  of  all  his  mag- 
nificence, and  remained  ignorant  in  spite  of  all  his 
knowledge.    Witness  the  wars,  tyrannies,  miseries, 


164 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


tVr- 


k 

i 

<4 


,"e  I 


delusions,  and  idolatries  which  followed  after  his 
death." 

"  But  the  Queen  of  Sheba  came  not  from  the 
uttermost  pi^rts  of  the  earth  to  view  thie  magnificence 
and  wonder  at  the  greatness  of  the  King,  she  came 
to  hear  his  wisdom.  She  came  not  to  ask  anything 
from  him,  but  to  prove  him  with  hard  questions.  No 
idea  of  worldly  gain,  or  selfish  ambition,  was  in  her 
thoughts ;  she  paid  even  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
his  wise  sayings  by  rare  and  costly  gifts." 

"  Knowledge  is  power ;  but  he  who  worships 
knowledge  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  the  power  it 
brings,  worships  power.  Knowledge  is  riches;  but 
he  who  worships  knowledge  for  the  sake  of  all  it 
bestows,  worships  riches.  The  Queen  of  Sheba 
worshipped  knowledge  solely  for  its  own  sake ;  and 
the  truths  which  she  sought  from  the  lips  of  Solomon 
she  sought  for  truth's  sake.  She  gave,  all  she  could 
give,  in  return,  the  spicy  products  of  her  own  land, 
treasures  of  pure  gold,  and  blessings  warm  from  her 
heart.  The  man  who  makes  a  voyage  to  the  anti- 
podes only  to  behold  the  constellation  of  the  Southern 
Cross,  the  man  who  sails  to  the  North  to  see  how  the 
magnet  trembles  and  varies,  these  love  knowledge 
for  its  own  sake,  and  are  impelled  by  the  same  en- 
thusiasm as  the  Queen  of  Sheba."  He  went  on  to 
analyse  the  character  of  Solomon,  and  did  not  treat 
him,  I  thought,  with  much  reverence  either  as  sage 
or  prophet.     He  remarked  that,  "  of  the  thousand 


:ter  his 

'om  the 
lificence 
ie  came 
inything 
ns.  No 
IS  in  her 
hearing 

worships 
power  it 
hes;  but 
of  all  it 
f    Sheba 
ike;  and 
Solomon 
he  could 
wn  land, 
from  her 
he  anti- 
outhern 
how  the 
lowledge 
lame  en- 
t  on  to 
ot  treat 
as  sage 
lousand 


SOLOMON  AMD  THE  QUEEN  OF  SHEBA. 


166 


songs  of  Solomon  one  only  survives,  and  that  both 
in  this  song  and  in  his  proverbs  his  meaning  has 
often  been  mistaken ;  it  is  supposed  to  be  spiritual, 
and  is  interpreted  symbolically,  when  in  fact  the 
plain,  obvious,  material  significance  is  the  true  one." 
He  continued  to  this  eflFect, — but  with  a  power  of 
language  and  illustration  which  I  cannot  render. 
"  We  see  in  Solomon's  own  description  of  his  do- 
minion, his  glory,  his  wealth,  his  fame,  what  his 
boasted  wisdom  achieved ;  what  it  could,  and  what  it 
could  not  do  for  him.  What  was  the  end  of  all  his 
magnificence?  of  his  worship  of  the  beautiful?  of 
his  intellectual  triumphs  ?  of  his  political  subtlety  ? 
of  his  ships,  and  his  commerce,  and  his  chariots,  and 
his  horses,  and  his  fame  which  reached  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  ?  All — as  it  is  related — ended  in  fee- 
bleness, in  scepticism,  in  disbelief  of  happiness,  in 
sensualism,  idolatry,  and  dotage  !  The  whole  ^  Book 
of  Ecclesiastes,'  fine  as  it  is,  presents  a  picture  of 
selfishness  and  epicurism.  This  was  the  King  of 
the  Jews !  the  King  of  those  that  know  !  {11  maestro 
di  color  chi  sanno.)  Solomon  is  a  type  of  worldly 
wisdom,  of  desire  of  knowledge  for  the  sake  of  all 
that  knowledge  can  give.  We  imitate  him  when  we 
would  base  the  happiness  of  a  people  on  knowledge. 
When  we  have  commanded  the  sun  to  be  our  painter, 
and  the  lightning  to  run  on  our  errands,  what  reward 
have  we  ?    Not  the  increase  of  happiness,  nor  the 


i^ 


166 


THEOLOOIOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


increase  of  goodness ;  nor — what  is  next  to  both— 
our  faith  in  both." 

^"     "  It  would  seem  profane  to  contrast  Solomon  and 
Christ  had  not  our  Saviour  himself  placed  that  con- 
trast distinctly  before  us.     He  consecrated  the  com- 
parison by  applying    it — 'Behold  a  greater    than 
Solomon  is  here.'    In  quoting  these  words  we  do  not 
presume  to  bring  into  comparison  the  two  natures, 
but  the  two  intellects — the  two  aspects   of  truth. 
Solomon  described  the  external  world ;  Christ  taught 
the  moral  law.     Solomon  illustrated  the  aspects  of 
nature ;  Christ  helped  the  aspirations  of  the  spirit. 
Solomon  left  us  a  legacy,  the  saying  that  '  in  much 
wisdom  there  is  much  grief; '  and  Christ  preached  to 
lis  the  lowly  wisdom  which  can   consecrate  grief; 
making  it  lead  to  the  elevation  of  our  whole  being 
and  to  ultimate  happiness.     The  two  majesties^ — the 
two  kings — how  different !     Not  till  we  are  old,  and 
have  suffered,  and  have  laid  our  experience  to  heart, 
do  we  feel  the  immeasurable  distance  between  the 
teaching  of  Christ  and  the  teaching  of  Solomon !  " 

Then  returning  to  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  he  treated 
the  character  as  the  type  of  the  intellectual  woman. 
He  contrasted  her  rather  favourably  with  Solomon. 
Ho  described  with  picturesque  felicity,  her  long  and 
toilsome  journey  to  see,  to  admire,  the  man  whose 
wisdom  had  made  him  renowned ; — the  mixture  of 
enthusiasm  and  humility  which  prompted  her  desire 
to  learn,  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  rumour  had 


THE    BODY,    A   TEMPLE. 


167 


both— 

aon  and 
bat  con- 
;he  com- 
er   than 
e  do  not 
natures^ 
if  truth, 
it  taught 
pects  of 
LO  spirit, 
in  much 
tached  to 
be  grief; 
)le  being 
ies^ — the 
old,  and 
to  heart, 
een  the 
on ! " 
treated 
woman, 
olomon. 
jlong  and 
in  whose 
ture  of 
ir  desire 
our  had 


conveyed  to  her,  to  commune  with  bim  of  all  tbat 
was  in  her  heart.'  And  she  returned  to  her  own 
country  rich  in  wise  sayings.  But  did  the  final 
result  of  all  this  glory  and  knowledge  reach  her 
there  ?  afld  did  it  shake  her  faith  in  him  she  had 
bowed  to  as  the  wisest  of  kings  and  men  ?  " 

He  then  contrasted  the  character  of  the  Queen 
of  Sheba  with  that  of  Mary,  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 
that  feminine  type  of  holiness,  of  tenderness,  of  long- 
suffering  ;  of  sinless  purity  in  womanhood,  wifehood, 
and  motherhood  :  and  rising  to  more  than  usual  elo- 
quence and  power,  he  prophesied  the  regeneration  of 
all  human  communities  through  the  social  elevation, 
the  intellect,  the  purity,  and  the  devotion  of  Woman. 


-•,i'.* 


From  a  Sermon  {apparently  extempore)  by  a 

Dissenting  Minister.       -  > 

The  ascetics  of  the  old  times  seem  to  have  had  a 
belief  that  all  sin  was  in  the  body ;  that  the  spirit 
belonged  to  God,  and  the  body  to  his  adversary  the 
devil ;  and  that  to  contemn,  ill-treat,  and  degrade  by 
every  means  this  frame  of  ours,  so  wonderfully,  so 
fearfully,  so  exquisitely  made,  was  to  please  the  Being 
who  made  it ;  and  who,  for  gracious  ends,  no  doubt, 
rendered  it  capable  of  such  admirable  developm*ent 
of  strength  and  beauty.    Miserable  mistake  !  ,  l 


;^,U.  id 


168 


THBOLOOICAL   FRAGMENTS. 


To  some,  this  body  is  as  a  prison  from  which  we  arc 
to  rejoice  to  escape  by  any  permitted  means :  to  others, 
it  is  as  a  palace  to  be  luxuriously  kept  up  and  decorated 
within  and  without.  But  what  says  Paul  (Cor.  vi. 
19.), — "  Know  ye  not  that  your  body  is  the  temple 
of  the  Holy  Spirit  which  is  in  you,  which  ye  have 
from  God,  and  which  is  not  your  own  ?  "  < 

Surely  not  less  than  a  temple  is  that  form  which 
the  Divine  Redeemer  tooV  upon  him,  and  deigned, 
for  a  season,  to  inhabit ;  which  he  consecrated  by  his 
life,  sanctified  by  his  death,  glorified  by  his  transfigura- 
tion, hallowed  and  beautified  by  his  resurrection !  '  ' 

It  is  because  they  do  not  recognise  this  body  as 
a  temple,  built  up  by  God's  intelligence,  as  a  fitting 
sanctuary  for  the  immortal  Spirit,  and  this  life  equally 
with  any  other  form  of  life  as  dedicate  to  Him,  that 
men  fall  into  such  opposite  extremes  of  sin : — the 
spiritual  sin  which  contemns  the  body,  and  the  sensual 
sin  which  misuses  it. 


.-iV,'. 


VI.  .,-^- 

When  I  was  at  Boston  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Father  Taylor,  the  founder  of  the  Sailors'  Home 
in  that  city.  He  was  considered  as  the  apostle  of 
the  'seamen,  and  I  was  full  of  veneration  for  him  as 
the  enthusiastic  teacher  and  philanthropist.  But  it 
is  not  of  his  virtues  or  his  labours  that  I  wish  to 
speak.     He  struck  me  in  another  way,  as  a  poet ;  he 


FATHER  TAYLOR. 


160 


ih  we  sro 

^0  otherS) 
lecorated 
(Cor.  vi. 
e  temple 
ye  have 

rm  which 
deigned, 
ed  by  his 
ansfignra- 
jtioni  '-" 
;  body  as 
s  a  fitting 
fe  equally 
im,  that 
sin : — the 
le  sensual 

uaintance 
rs'  Home 
)ostle  of 
him  as 
But  it 
'.  wish  to 
poet;  he 


was  a  born  poet.  Until  he  was  five-and-twenty  he  had. 
never  learned  to  read,  and  his  reading  afterwards  was 
confined  to  such  books  as  aided  him  in  his  ministry. 
He  remained  an  illiterate  man  to  the  last,  but  his 
mind  was  teeming  with  spontaneous  imagery,  allusion, 
metaphor.     One  might  almost  say  of  him, 


"  He  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  » trope  I " 


.JT'f'' 


These  images  and  allusions  had  a  freshness,  an  origi- 
nality, and  sometimes  an  oddity  that  was  quite  start- 
ling, and  they  w^re  generally,  but  not  always  borrowed 
from  his  former  profession — that  of  a  sailor. 

One  day  we  met  him  in  the  street.  He  told  us 
in  a  melancholy  voice  that  he  had  been  burying  a 
child,  and  alluded  almost  with  emotion  to  the  great 
number  of  infants  he  had  buried  lately."  Then  after 
a  pause,  striking  his  stick  on  the  ground  and  looking 
upwards,  he  added,  "  There  must  be  something  wrong 
somewhere !  there's  a  storm  brewing,  when  the  doves 
are  all  flying  aloft ! " 

One  evening  in  conversation  with  me,  he  compared 
the  English  and  the  Americans  to  Jacob's  vine,  which, 
planted  on  one  side  of  the  wall,  grew  over  it  and  hung 
its  boughs  and  clusters  on  the  other  side, — "  but  it  is 
still  the  same  vine,  nourished  from  the  same  root ! " 

On  one  occasion  when  I  attended  his  chapel,  the 
sermon  was  preceded  by  a  long  prayer  in  behalf  of  an 

8 


no 


THEOLOOIOAL   FRAGMENTS. 


*  afflicted  family,  ono  of  whoae  members  had  died  or 
been  lost  in  a  whaling  expedition  to  the  South  Seas. 
In  the  midst  of  much  that  was  exquisitely  pathetic 
and  poetical,  refined  ears  were  startled  by  such  a 
sentence  as  this, — ^^  Grant,  0  Lord !  that  this  rod 
of  chastisement  be  sanctified,  every  twig  of  it,  to  the 
edification  of  their  souls  I  "  •  •-    "•  .   > 

* 

Then  immediately  afterwards  he  prayed  that  the 
Divine  Comforter  might  be  near  the  bereaved  father 
*'  when  his  aged  heart  went  forth  from  his  bosom  to 
flutter  round  the  far  southern  grave  of  his  boy ! " 
Praying  for  others  of  the  same  family  who  were  on 
the  wide  ocean,  he  exclaimed,  stretching  forth  his 
arms, ''  0  save  them !  0  guard  them  I  thou  angel  of 
the  deep ! " 

On  another  occasion,  speaking  of  the  insufficiency 
of  the  moral  principles  without  religious  feelings,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Go  heat  your  oven  with  snowballs ! 
What !  shall  I  send  you  to  heaven  with  such  an  icicle 
in  your  pocket  ?  I  might  as  well  put  a  mill-stone 
round  your  neck  to  teach  you  to  swim ! " 

He  was  preaching  against  violence  and  cruelty : — 
"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  he,  "  of  the  savages !  a 
ru^an  in  the  midst  of  Christendom  is  the  savage  of 
savages.  He  is  as  a  man  freezing  in  the  sun's  heat, 
groping  in  the  sun's  light,  a  straggler  in  paradise,  an 
alien  in  heaven ! " 

In  his  ohapel  all  the  principal  seats  in  f^ont  of  the 


FATHER  TAYLOR. 


Ill 


I  died  or 
ith  Seas. 
r  pathetic 
y  such  a 
this  rod 
it,  to  the 

• 

L  that  the 
red  father 
bosom  to 
iis  boy  I " 
0  were  on 
forth  his 
angel  of 

mfficiency 
elings,  he 
nowballs ! 
an  icicle 
mill-stone 

ruelty : — 
vages !  a 
lavage  of 
m's  heat, 
radise,  an 

ont  of  th^ 


pulpit  and  down  the  centre  isle  were  filled  by  the 
sailors.  We  ladies,  and  gentlemen,  and  strangers, 
whom  curiosity  had  brought  to  hear  him,  were  ranged 
on  each  side ;  he  would  on  no  account  allow  us  to 
take  the  best  places.  On  one  occasion,  as  he  was 
denouncing  hypocrisy,  luxury,  and  vanity,  and  other 
vices  of  more  civilised  life,  he  said  emphatically,  ''  I 
don't  mean  you  before  me  here,"  looking  at  the  sailors; 
'^  I  believe  you  are  wicked  enough,  but  honest  fellows 
in  some  sort,  for  you  profess  less,  not  more,  than  you 
practise ;  but  I  mean  to  touch  starboard  and  larboard 
there  I  "  stretching  out  both  hands  with  the  forefinger 
extended,  and  looking  at  us  on  either  side  till  we 
quailed. 

He  compared  the  love  of  God  in  sending  Christ 
upon  earth,  to  that  of  the  father  of  a  seaman  who 
sends  his  eldest  and  most  beloved  son,  the  hope  of 
the  family,  to  bring  back  the  younger  one,  lost  on  his 
voyage,  and  missing  when  his  ship  returned  to  port. 

Alluding  to  the  carelessness  of  Christians,  he  used 
the  figure  of  a  mariner,  steering  into  port  through  a 
narrow  dangerous  channel,  "  false  lights  here,  rocks 
there,  shifting  sand  banks  on  one  side,  breakers  on 
the  other ;  and  who,  instead  of  fixing  his  attention  to 
keep  the  head  of  his  vessel  right,  and  to  obey  the 
instructions  of  the  pilot  as  he  sings  out  from  the 
wheel,  throws  the  pilot  overboard,  lashes  down  the 
helm,  and  walks  the  deck  whistling,  with  his  hands 


172 


THEOLOGICAL   FRAQMEMTS. 


in  the  pookets  of  his  jacket/'  Here,  suiting  the  action 
to  the  word,  he  put  on  a  true  sailor-like  look  of  defiant 
jollity ; — changed  in  a  moment  to  an  expression  of 
horror  as  ho  added,  ''  See  I  see !  she  drifts  to 
destruction  1 " 

One  Sunday  he  attempted  to  give  to  his  sailor 
congregation  an  idea  of  Bedemption.  He  hegan  with 
an  eloquent  description  of  a  terrific  storm  at  sea, 
rising  to  fury  through  all  its  gradations ;  then,  amid 
the  waves,  a  vessel  is  seen  labouring  in  distress  and 
driving  on  a  lee  shore.  The  masts  bend  and  break, 
and  go  overboard ;  the  sails  are  rent,  the  helm  un- 
shipped, they  spring  a  leak  !  the  vessel  begins  to  fill, 
the  water  gains  on  them ;  she  sinks  deeper,  deeper, 
deeper !  deeper !  He  bent  over  the  pulpit  repeating 
the  last  words  again  and  again ;  his  voice  became  low 
and  hollow.  The  faces  of  the  sailors  as  they  gazed 
up  at  him  with  their  mouths  wide  open,  and  their 
eyes  fixed,  I  shall  never  forget.  Suddenly  stopping, 
and  looking  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  chapel,  as  into 
space,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  piercing  cry  of  exultation, 
''A  life  boat!  a  life  boat!"  Then  looking  down 
upon  his  congregation,  most  of  whom  had  sprung  to 
their  feet  in  au  ecstasy  of  suspense,  he  said  in  a  deep 
impressive  tone,  and  extending  his  arms,  "  Christ  is 
that  life  boat  f'  '^^^ 


^-^^ 


t  '  . 


T- 


i^tjiti 


RELIOION   AND  80IIN0E. 


ITS 


le  action 
r  defiant 
ssion  of 
rifts    to 

is  Bailor 
gan  with 
I  at  sea, 
en,  amid 
tress  and 
d  break, 
helm  un- 
ns  to  fill, 
r,  deeper, 
epeating 
came  low 
ey  gazed 
,Dd  their 
(topping, 
,  as  into 
:ultation, 
ig  down 
»rung  to 
a  deep 
'hrist  is 


A^^>^'  >'    ^: 


VII. 


BELIOION  AND  8CIENGE. 


*'  It  is  true,  that  science  has  not  made  Nature  as 
expressive  of  God  in  the  first  instance,  or  to  the  be- 
ginner in  religion,  as  it  was  in  earlic    limes.   Science 
reveals  a  rigid,  immutable  order ;  and  this  to  common 
minds  looks  much  like  self  subsistence,  and  does  not 
manifest  intelligence,  which  is  full  of  life,  variety, 
and  progressive  operation.    Men,  in  the  days  of  their 
ignorance,  saw  an  immediate  Divinity  accomplishing 
an  immediate  purpose,  or  expressing  an  immediate 
feeling,  in  every  sudden,  striking  change  of  nature — 
in  a  storm,  the  flight  of  a  bird,  &c. ;   and  Nature, 
thus  interpreted,  became  the  sign  of  a  present,  deeply 
interested  Deity.     Science  undoubtedly  brings  vast 
aids,  but  it  is  to  prepared  minds,  to  those  who  have 
begun  in  another  school.     The  greatest  aid  it  yields 
consists  in  the  revelation  it  makes  of  the  Infinite. 
It  aids  us  not  so  much  by  showing  us  marks  of 
design  in  this  or  that  particular  thing  as  by  showing 
the  Infinite  in  the  finite.     Science  does  this  office 
when  it  unfolds  to  us  the  unity  of  the  universe,  which 
thus  becomes  the  sign,  tbe  efflux  of  one  unbounded 
intelligence,  when  it  reveals  to  us  in  every  work  of 
Nature  infinite  connections,  the  influences  of  all- 
pervading  laws' — when  it  shows  us  in  each  created 
thing  unfathomable,  unsearchable  depths,  to  which 


'fr^ 


174 


THEOLOGICAL  FRAGMENTS. 


our  intelligence  is  altogether  unequal.  Thus  Nature 
explored  by  science  is  a  witness  of  the  Infinite.  It 
is  also  a  witness  to  the  same  truth  by  its  beauty ;  for 
what  is  so  undefined,  so  mysterious  as  beauty  ?  " — 
Dr.  Channing. 


W 


w 

u 


■*jt(.^'-5^*%   ,»»^:i^'fcv\*'  tw'A*.- 


w 


v^Ji,  (.;,/,:. 


PART    II. 


LITERATURE    AND    ART. 


■  •  • 


h 

"  A  GREAT  advantage  is  derived  from  tbe  occasional 
practice  of  reading  together,  for  each  person  selects 
different  beauties  and  starts  different  objections: 
while  the  same  passage  perhaps  awakens  in  each 
mind  a  different  train  of  associated  ideas,  or  raises 
different  images  for  the  purpose  of  illustration." — 
Francis  Horner. 

2. 

"  G'est  ainsi  que  je  poursuis  la  communication  de 
quelque  esprit  fameux,  non  afin  qu'il  m'enseigne  mais 
afin  que  je  le  connaisse,  et  que  le  connaissant^  s'il  la 
faut,  je  I'imite." — Montaigne. 


176 


NOTES    FROM    BOOKS. 


■:i^ 


i  Ml 


DR.  AENOLD. 


8. 


'      •  |!  I  I ' 


I  SAT  up  till  half-past  two  this  morniDg  reading 
Dr.  Arnold's  "  Life  and  Letters,"  and  have  my  soul 
full  of  him  to-day.  '  - 

On  the  whole  I  cannot  say  that  the  perusal  of 
this  admirable  book  has  changed  any  notion  in  my 
mind,  or  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  ideas.  There 
was  no  height  of  inspiration,  or  eloquence,  or  power, 
to  which  I  looked  up ;  no  profound  depth  of  thought 
or  feeling  into  which  I  looked  dawn ;  no  new  lights ; 
no  new  guides  :  no  absolutely  new  aspects  of  things 
human  or  spiritual. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  never  read  a  book  of  the 
kind  with  a  more  harmonious  sense  of  pleasure  and 
approbation^ — if  the  word  be  not  from  me  presump- 
tuous. While  I  read  page  after  page,  the  mind 
which  was  unfolded  before  me  seemed  to  me  a  broth- 
er's mind — the  spirit,  a  kindred  spirit.  It  was  the 
improved,  the  ^^evated,  the  enlarged,  the  enriched, 
the  every-way  superior  reflection  of  my  own  intelli- 
gence, but  it  was  certainly  that.  I  felt  it  so  from 
beginning  to  end.  Exactly  the  reverse  was  the  feel- 
ing with  which  I  laid  down  the  Life  and  Letters  of 
Southey.  I  was  instructed,  amused,  interested ;  I 
profited  and  admired  ;  but  with  the  man  Southey  I 
had  no  sympathies :  my  mind  stood  off  from  his ;  the 
poetical  intellect  attracted,  the  material  of  the  char- 


DR.  ARNOLD. 


177 


•::^ 


esump- 
mind 
broth- 
ras  the 
riched, 
intelli- 
9  from 
le  feel- 
ters  of 
ed;  I 
they  I 
s;  the 
char- 


acter repelled  me.  I  liked  the  embroidery,  but  the 
texture  was  disagreeable,  repugnant.  Now  with  re- 
gard to  Dr.  Arnold,  my  entire  sympathy  with  the 
character,  with  the  material  of  the  character,  did  not 
extend  to  all  its  manifestations.  I  liked  the  texture 
better  than  the  embroidery; — perhaps,  because  of 
my  feminine  organisation. 

Nor  did  my  admiration  of  the  intellect  extend  to 
the  acceptance  of  all  the  opinions  which  emanated 
from  it ;  perhaps  because  from  the  manner  th«;se  were 
enunciated,  or  merely  touched  upon  (in  letters 
chiefly),  I  did  not  comprehend  clearly  the  reasoning 
on  which  they  may  have  been  founded.  Perhaps,  if 
I  had  done  so,  I  must  have  respected  them  more, 
perhaps  have  been  convinced  by  them ;  so  large,  so 
candid,  so  rich  in  knowledge,  and  apparently  so 
logical,  wa."*  the  mind  which  admitted  them. 

And  yet  this  excellent,  admirable  man,  seems  to 
have  feared  Gcd,  in  the  commonplace  sense  of  the 
word  fear.  He  considered  the  Jews  as  out  of  the 
pale  of  equality  ;  he  was  against  their  political  eman- 
cipation from  a  hatred  of  Judaism.  He  subscribed 
to  the  Athanasian  Greed,  which  stuck  even  in  George 
the  Third's  orthodox  throat.  He  believed  in  what 
Coleridge  could  not  admit,  in  the  existence  of  the 
spirit  of  evil  as  a  person.  He  had  an  idea  that  the 
Church  of  God  may  be  destroyed  by  an  Antichrist ; 
he  speaks  of  such  a  consuT!:imation  as  possible,  as  pro- 
bable, as  impending ;  as  if  any  institution  really  from 

8* 


Ill 


178 


NOTES    FROM   BOOKS. 


God  could  be  destroyed  by  an  adverse  power ! — and 
he  thought  that  a  lawyer  could  not  be  a  Christian. 


4. 


■  f-M    i 


Certain  passages  filled  me  with  astonishment  as 
coming  from  a  churchman,  particularly  what  he  says 
of  the  sacraments  (vol.  ii.  p.  75.  113.);  and  in  another 
place,  where  he  speaks  of  "  the  pestilent  distinction 
between  clergy  and  laity ;  "  and  where  he  says,  "  I 
hold  that  one  form  of  Church  government  is  exactly 
as  much  according  to  Christ's  will  as  another."  And 
in  another  place  he  speaks  of  the  Anglican  Church 
(with  reference  to  Henry  VIII.  as  its  father,  and 
Elizabeth  as  its  foster-mother),  as  ''  the  child  of  regal 
and  aristocratical  selfishness  and  unprincipled  tyranny, 
who  has  never  dared  to  speak  boldly  to  the  great, 
but  has  contented  herself  with  lecturing  the  poor ; " 
but  he  forgot  at  the  moment  the  trial  of  the  bishops 
in  James's  time,  and  their  noble  stand  against  regal 
authority. 

5. 

With  regard  to  conservatism  (vol.  ii,  pp.  19.  62.), 
he  seems  to  mean — as  I  understand  the  whole  pas* 
sage, — that  it  is  a  good  instinct  but  a  bad  principle. 
Yet  as  a  principle  is  it,  as  he  says,  "  always  wrong  ? " 
Though  as  the  adversary  of  progress,  it  must  be 
always  wrong,  yet  as  the  adversary  of  change  it  may 
be  sometimes  right. 


I 


DR.   ARNOLD. — SECTARIANISM. 


170 


Br ! — and 
istian. 

■  *-f 

hment  as 
t  he  says 
Q  another 
istinction 
says,  "  I 
s  exactly 
r."  And 
1  Church 
:her,  and 
I  of  regal 
tyranny, 
le  great, 

poor; 

bishops 
ist  regal 


rt^l^i-: 


'   .      f  '-•       '^    r* 


)l 


19.  62.), 
ole  pas< 
Hnciple. 
rrong  ?  " 
nust  be 
it  may 


He  remarks  that  most  of  those  who  are  above  sec- 
tarianism are  in  general  indifferent  to  Christianity, 
while  almost  all  who  profess  to  value  Christianity 
seem,  when  they  are  brought  to  the  test,  to  care  only 
for  their  own  sect.  "  Now,"  he  adds,  "  it  is  manifest 
to  me,  that  all  our  education  must  be  Christian,  and 
not  be  sectarian."  Yet  the  whole  aim  of  education 
up  to  this  time  has  been,  in  this  country,  eminently 
sectarian,  and  every  statesman  who  has  attempted  to 
place  it  on  a  broader  basis  has  been  either  wrecked 
or  stranded. 

"  All  sects,"  he  says  in  another  place,  "  have  had 
among  them  marks  of  Christ's  Catholic  Church  in  the 
graces  of  his  Spirit  and  the  confession  of  his  name," 
and  he  seems  to  wish  that  some  one  would  compile  a 
book  showing  side  by  side  what  professors  of  all  sects 
have  done  for  the  good  of  Christ's  Church, — the 
martyrdoms,  the  missionary  labours  of  Catholics, 
Protestants,  Arians,  &c. ;  "  a  graad  field,"  he  calls 
it, — and  so  it  were;  but  it  lies  Tallow  up  to  this 
time. 

n. 

"  The  philosophy  of  medicine,  I  imagine,  is  at 
zero;  our  practice  is  empirical,  and  seems  hardly 
more  than  a  course  of  guessing,  more  or  less  happy," 
In  another  place  (vol.  ii.  p.  72.),  he  says,  "  yet  I 


180 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


»     V/ 


honour  medicine  as  the  most  beneficent  of  all  pro* 
fessions." 


•.!        X- 


He  says  (vol.  ii.  42.)/'  Narrow-mindedness  tends 
to  wickedness^  because  it  does  not  extend  its  watch- 
fulness to  every  part  of  our  moral  nature."  "  Thus, 
a  man  may  have  one  or  more  virtues,  such  as  are 
according  to  his  favourite  ideas,  in  great  perfection  ; 
and  still  be  nothing,  because  these  ideas  are  his  idols, 
and,  worshipping  them  with  all  hiii  heart,  there  is  a 
portion  of  his  heart,  more  or  lesi  considerable,  left 
without  its  proper  object,  guide,  and  nourishment ; 
and  so  this  portion  is  left  to  the  dominion  of  evil/' 
&c. 

(One  might  ask  how^  if  a  man  worship  these  ideas 
with  all  his  heart,  a  portion  could  be  left  1  but  the 
sense  is  so  excellent,  I  cannot  quarrel  with  a  slight 
inaccuracy  in  the  expression.  I  never  quite  under- 
stood before  why  it  is  difficult  to  subscribe  to  the 
truth  of  the  phra^Je  "  He  is  a  good  but  narrow-minded 
man,"  hut  felt  ihe  incompatibility.) 


9. 

He  says  "  the  word  useful  implies  the  idea  of  good 
robbed  of  its  nobleness."  Is  this  true?  the  useful 
is  the  good  applied  to  practical  purposes ;  it  need  not, 
therefore,  be  less  noble.  The  nobleness  lies  in  the 
spirit  in  which  it  is  so  applied. 


OB.  ARNOLD. — CONSOISNOE. 


181 


10. 


^■.■/' 


Benthamism  (what  ^5  it?),  Puritanism,  Judaism, 
how  he  hates  them !  I  suppose,  because  he  fean 
God  and  fears  for  the  Church  of  God.  Hatred  of  all 
kinds  seems  to  originate  in  fear.  ^  .    . 


tl 


What  he  says  of  conscience,  very  remarkable! 
"  Men  get  embarrassed  by  the  common  cases  of  a 
misguided  conscience :  but  a  compass  may  be  out  of 
order  as  well  as  a  conscience ;  and  you  can  trace  the 
deranging  influence  on  the  latter  quite  as  surely  as 
on  the  former.  The  needle  may  point  due  south  if 
you  hold  a  powerful  magnet  in  that  direction ;  still 
the  compass,  generally  speaking,  is  a  true  and  sure 
guide,"  &c.,  and  then  he  adds,  "he  who  believes  his 
conscience  to  be  God's  law,  by  obeying  it  obeys 
God." 

I  think  there  would  be  much  to  say  about  all  this 
passage  relating  to  conscience,  nor  vu  I  sure  that  I 
quite  understand  it.  Derangement  of  the  intellect 
is  madness;  is  not  derangement  of  the  conscience 
also  madness  ?  might  it  not  be  induced,  as  we  bring 
on  a  morbid  state  of  the  other  faculties,  by  over  use 
and  abuse  ?  by  giving  it  more  than  its  due  share  of 
power  in  the  commonwealth  of  the  mind  ?  It  should 
preside,  not  tyrannise;  rule,  not  exercise  a  petty 
cramping  despotism.      A  healthy  courageous  con- 


lrii! 


182 


NOTES    FROM    BOOKS.    ^   , 


science  gives  to  the  powers,  instincts,  impulses,  fair 
play ;  and  having  once  settled  the  order  of  govern- 
ment with  a  strong  hand,  is  not  always  meddKng 
though  always  watchful. 

Then  again,  how  is  conscience  "  God's  law  ?  " 
Conscience  is  not  the  law,  but  the  interpreter  of  the 
law ;  it  does  not  teach  the  difference  between  right 
and  wrong,  it  only  impels  us  to  do  what  we  believe 
to  be  right,  and  smites  us  when  we  think  we  have 
been  wrong.  How  is  it  that  many  have  done  wrong, 
and  every  day  do  wrong  for  conscience'  sake  ? — and 
does  that  sanctify  the  wrong  in  the  eyes  of  God,  as 
well  as  in  those  of  John  Huss  ? 


r  ■■' 


12. 

"  Prayer,"  he  says,  "  and  kindly  intercourse  with 
the  poor,  are  the  two  great  safeguards  of  spiritual 
life — its  more  than  food  and  raiment." 

True ;  but  there  is  something  higher  than  this  fed 
and  clothed  spiritual  life;  something  more  dfficult, 
yet  less  conscious. 

13. 

In  allusion  to  Coleridge,  he  says  very  truly,  that 
the  power  of  contemplation  becomes  diseased  and 
perverted  when  it  is  the  main  employment  of  life. 
But  to  the  same  great  intellect  he  dc^'  *>eautiful  jus- 
tice in  another  passage.  "  Coleridge  seemed  to  me  to 
love  truth  really,  and  therefore  truth  presented  herself 


DR.   ARNOLD. — COLERIDGE. 


188 


ises,  fair 

govern- 

aeddKmg 

1  law  ?  " 
r  of  the 
en  right 

believe 
we  have 
e  wrong, 
e  ? — and 

God,  as 


rse  with 
pirituat 


this  fed 
dfficult, 


ily,  that 
sed  and 
of  life, 
iful  jus- 
:o  me  to 
I  herself 


to  him,  not  negatively,  as  she  does  to  many  minds, 
who  can  see  that  the  objections  against  her  are  un- 
founded, and  therefore  that  she  is  to  be  received ;  but 
she  filled  him,  as  it  were,  heart  and  mind,  imbuing 
him  with  her  very  self,  so  that  all  his  being  com- 
prehended her  fully,  and  loved  her  ardently;  and 
that  seems  to  me  to  be  true  wisdom." 

14. 

Very  fine  is  a  passage  wherein  he  speaks  against 
meeting  what  is  wrong  and  bad  with  negatives,  with 
merely  proving  the  wrong  to  be  wrong,  and  the  false 
be  be  false,  without  substituting  for  either  the  posi- 
tively good  and  true. 

15. 

He  contrasts  as  the  two  forms  of  the  present  danger 
to  the  Church  and  to  society,  the  prevalent  epicurean 
atheism,  and  the  lying  and  formal  spirit  of  priestcraft. 
He  seems  to  have  had  an  impression  that  the  Church 
of  God  may  be  "  utterly  destroyed  "  (?),  or,  he  asks, 
"  must  we  look  forward  for  centuries  to  come  to  the 
mere  alternations  of  infidelity  and  superstition,  scepti- 
cism and  Newmanism  ?  "  It  is  very  curious  to  see  two 
such  men  as  Arnold  and  Carlyle  both  overwhelmed 
with  a  terror  of  the  magnitude  of  the  mischiefs  they 
see  impending  over  us.  They  are  oppressed  with 
the  anticipation  of  evil  as  with  a  sense  of  personal 
calamity.     Something  alike,  perhaps,  in  the  tempera- 


184 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


ments  of  these  two  extraordinary  men ; — ^large  oon- 
soientiousness,  large  destructiyeness,  and  small  hope : 
there  was  great  mutual  sympathy  and  admiration. 


i'l  '  I 


■i    j«r. 


10. 


■-.f     -..vil 


;iA  t. 


.m 


'in 


Very  admirable  what  he  says  in  favour  of  com- 
prehensive reading,  against  exclusive  reading  in  one 
line  of  study.  He  says,  "  Preserve  proportion  in 
your  reading,  keep  your  view  of  men  and  things  ex- 
tensive, and  depend  upon  it  a  mixed  knowledge  is 
not  a  superficial  one ;  as  far  as  it  goes  the  views  that 
it  gives  are  true ;  but  he  who  reads  deeply  in  one 
class  of  writers  only,  gets  views  which  are  almost 
sure  to  be  perverted,  and  which  are  not  only  narrow 
but  false.^^ 

11. 

All  his  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  and  beauty 
show  his  intense  sensibility  to  them,  but  nowhere 
is  there  a  trace  of  the  love  or  the  comprehension 
of  art,  as  the  reflection  from  the  mind  of  man 
of  the  nature  and  the  beauty  he  so  loved.  Thus, 
after  dwelling  on  a  scene  of  exquisite  natural 
beauty,  he  says,  ''  Much  more  beautiful,  because 
made  truly  after  God's  own  image,  are  the  forms  and 
colours  of  kind,  and  wise,  and  holy  thoughts,  words, 
and  actions ;  "  that  is  to  say — although  he  knew  not 
or  made  not  the  application — Art,  in  the  high 
sense  of  the  word,  for  that  is  the  embodying  in  beaU' 


DR.   ARNOLD. — ANIMAL   LIF£. 


186 


tiful  hues  and  forms,  what  is  kind,  wise,  and  holy ; 
in  one  word — good.  In  fact,  he  says  himself,  art, 
physical  science,  and  natural  history,  were  not  in- 
cluded within  the  reach  of  his  mind ;  the  first  for 
want  of  taste,  the  second  for  want  of  time,  and  the 
third  for  want  of  inclination. 


He  says, "  The  whole  subject  of  the  brute  creation, 
is  to  me  one  of  such  painful  mystery,  that  I  dare 
not  approach  it."  This  is  very  striking  from  such  a 
man.  How  deep,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  does 
this  feeling  lie  in  many  minds  ! 

Bayle  had  already  termed  the  acts,  motives  and 
feelings  of  the  lower  order  of  animals  ^'  un  des 
plus  profonds  abimes  sur  quo!  notre  raison  pent 
s'exerciser."  -  k  — 

There  is  nothing,  as  I  have  sometimes  thought,  in 
which  men  so  blindly  sin  as  in  their  appreciation  and 
treatment  of  the  whole  lower  order  of  creatures.  It 
is  affirmed  that  love  and  mercy  towards  animals  are 
not  inculcated  by  any  direct  precept  of  Christianity, 
but  surely  they  are  included  in  its  spirit ;  yet  it  has 
been  remarked  that  cruelty  towards  animals  is  far 
more  common  in  Western  Christendom  than  in  the 
East.  With  the  Mahometans  and  Brahminical  races, 
humanity  to  animals,  and  the  sacredness  of  life  in  all 
its  forms,  is  much  more  of  a  religious  principle  than 
among  ourselves.     .  - 


■> 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


m|18     |Z5 

|so  ""^^    hhi^b 

m 

1.4    IWI.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4S03 


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./,  V  ^- 


i     ! 


186 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS.      ^ 


li 


Baoon,  in  his  "  Adyanoement  of  Learning,"  does 
not  think  it  beneath  his  philosophy  to  point  out  as  a 
part  of  human  morals,  and  a  condition  of  human  im- 
provement, justice  and  mercy  to  the  lower  animals — 
''  the  extension  of  a  noble  and  excellent  principle  of 
compassion  to  the  creatures  subject  to  man."  ''  The 
Turks,"  he  says,  "though  a  cruel  and  sanguinary 
nation  both  in  descent  and  discipline,  giye  alms  to 
brutes,  and  suffer  them  not  to  be  tortured." 

It  should  seem  as  if  the  primitive  Christians,  by 
laying  so  much  stress  upon  a  future  life  in  con- 
tradistinction to  this  life,  and  placing  the  lower 
creatures  out  of  the  pale  of  hope,  placed  them  at  the 
same  time  out  of  the  pale  of  sympathy,  and  thus  laid 
the  foundation  for  this  utter  disregard  of  animals  in 
the  light  of  our  fellow  creatures.  Their  definition  of 
virtue  was  the  same  as  Paley's — that  it  was  good 
performed  for  the  sake  of  ensuring  everlasting  hap- 
piness^ — ^which  of  course  excluded  all  the  so-called 
brute  creatures.  Kind,  loving,  submissive,  conscien- 
tious, much-enduring,  we  know  them  to  be ;  but  be- 
cause we  deprive  them  of  all  stake  in  the  future, 
because  they  have  no  selfish  calculated  aim,  these 
are  not  virtues ;  yet  if  we  say  "  a  vicious  horse,"  why 
not  say  a  virtuous  horse  ? 

The  following  passage,  bearing  curiously  enough 
on  the  most  abstruse  part  of  the  question,  I  found  in 
Hallam's  Literature  of  the  Middle  Ages : — ^*^  Few," 
he  says,  "  at  present,   who  believe  in  the  imma- 


DB.  ARNOLD. — AVIMAL  LIFB. 


187 


,"  does 
ut  as  a 
lan  im- 
mals — 
iple  of 
"The 
quinary 
Ims  to 

ms,  by 
n  oon« 
lower 
at  the 
as  laid 
lals  in 
tion  of 
s  good 
g  tap- 
>-called 
Dsoien- 
>ut  be- 
future, 
,  these 
I,"  why 

enough 
and  in 
Few," 
imma- 


tiBiiality  of  the  human  soul,  would  deny  the  same  to 
an  elephant;  but  it  must  be  owned  that  the  dis* 
coveries  of  zoology  have  pushed  this  to  consequences 
which  some  might  not  readily  adopt.  The  spiritual 
being  of  a  sponge  revolts  a  little  our  prejudices ;  yet 
there  is  no  resting-place,  and  we  must  admit  this,  or 
be  content  to  sink  ourselves  into  a  mass  of  medullary 
fibre.  Brutes  have  been  as  slowly  emancipated  in . 
philosophy  as  some  classes  of  mankind  have  be^n  in 
civil  polity;  their  souls,  we  see,  were  almost  uni- 
versally disputed  to  them  at  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  even  by  those  who  did  not  absolutely 
bring  them  down  to  machinery.  Even  within  the 
recollection  of  many,  it  was  common  to  deny  them 
any  kind  of  reasoning  faculty,  and  to  solve  their 
most  sagacious  actions  by  the  vague  word  instinct. 
"We  have  come  of  late  years  to  think  better  of  our 
humble  companions ;  and,  as  usual  in  similar  cases, 
the  preponderant  bias  seems  rather  too  much  of  a 
levelling  character." 

When  natural  philosophers  speak  of  "  the  higher 
reason  and  more  limited  instincts  of  man,"  as  com- 
pared with  animals,  do  they  mean  savage  man  or 
cultivated  man  ?  In  the  savage  man  the  instincts 
have  a  power,  a  range,  a  certitude,  like  those  of 
animals.  As  the  mental  faculties  become  expanded 
and  refined  the  instincts  become  subordinate.  In 
tame  animals  are  the  instincts  as  strong  as  in  wild 
animals?    Oan  we  not,  by  a  process  of  training. 


188 


N0TB8   FROM   BOOKS. 


■ubstitute  an  entirely  different  set  of  motiyes  and 
habits? 

Why,  in  managing  animals,  do  men  in  general 
make  brutes  of  themselves  to  addrei^s  what  is  most 
brute  in  the  lower  creature,  as  if  it  had  not  been 
demonstrated  that  in  using  our  higher  faculties,  our 
reason  and  bencYolence,  we  deyelope  sympathetically 
higher  powers  in  themy  and  in  subduing  them  through 
what  is  best  within  us,  raise  them  and  bring  them 
nearer  to  ourselves  ?  "f 

In  general  the  more  we  can  gather  of  facts,  the 
nearer  we  are  to  the  elucidation  of  theoretic  truth. 
But  with  regard  to  animals,  the  multiplication  of 
fftcts  only  increases  our  difficulties  and  puts  us  to 
confusion. 

**  Can  we  otherwise  explain  animal  instincts  thaia 
by  supposing  that  the  Deity  himself  is  virtually  the 
active  and  present  moving  principle  within  them? 
If  we  deny  them  soui^  we  must  admit  that  they  have 
some  spirit  direct  from  God,  what  we  call  unerring 
instinct,  which  holds  the  place  of  it."  Thii^  is  the 
opinion  which  Newton  adopts.  Then  are  we  to 
infer  that  the  reason  of  man  removes  him  further 
from  God  than  the  animals,  since  we  cannot  offend 
God  in  our  instincts,  only  in  our  reason  ?  and  that 
the  Bv^eriority  of  the  human  animal  lies  in  the  power 
of  sinning  ?  Terrible  power !  terrible  privilege !  out 
of  .which  we  deduce  the  law  of  progress  and  the 
necessity  for  a  future  life. 


DR.  ikRHOLD. — ^ANIMAL   LIFE. 


180 


The  following  passage  bearing  on  the  subject  is 
from  Bentham : — 

*'  The  day  may  oome  when  the  rest  of  the  animal 
creation  may  acquire  those  rights  which  never  could 
have  been  withholden  from  them  but  by  the  hand  of 
tyranny.  It  may  come  one  day  to  be  recognised 
that  the  number  of  legs,  the  villosity  of  the  skin,  or 
the  termination  of  the  os  sacrum,  are  reasons  insuf- 
ficient for  abandoning  a  sensitive  being  to  the  caprice 
of  a  tormentor.  What  else  is  it  that  should  trace  the 
insuperable  line?  is  it  the  faculty  of  reason,  or, 
perhaps,  the  faculty  of  discourse  ?  But  a  full-grown 
horse  or  dog  is  beyond  comparison  a  more  rational  as 
well  as  a  more  conversable  animal  than  an  infant  of 
a  day,  a  week,  or  even  a  month  old.  But  suppose 
the  case  were  otherwise,  what  would  it  avail  1  The 
question  is  not, '  can  they  reason  ? '  nor  '  can  they 
speak?  '  but ' can  they  su£fer ?  '" 

I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  heard  the  kind 
and  just  treatment  of  animals  enforced  upon  Chris- 
tian principles  or  made  the  subject  of  a  sermon. 


19. 

Once,  when  I  was  at  Vienna,  there  was  a  dread 
of  hydrophobia,  and  orders  were  given  to  massacre  all 
the  dogs  which  were  found  unclaimed  or  uncollared 
in  the  city  or  suburbs.  Men  were  employed  for  this 
purpose,  and  they  generally  carried  a  short  heavy 
stick,  which  they  flung  at  the  poor  proscribed  animal 


190 


NOTBB   rROM  BOOU. 


with  8uoh  oertain  aim  as  either  to  kill  or  maim  it 
mortally  at  one  blow.  It  happened  one  day  that, 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  river,  near  the  Ferdinand's- 
Briicke,  one  of  these  men  flung  his  stick  at  a 
wretched  dog,  but  with  such  bad  aim  that*  it  fell  into 
the  river.  The  poor  .animal,  following  his  instinct  or 
his  teaching,  immediately  plunged  in,  redeemed  the 
stick,  and  laid  it  down  at  the  feet  of  its  owner,  who, 
snatching  it  up,  dashed  out  the  creature's  brains. 

I  wonder  what  the  Athenians  would  have  done  to 
such  a  man?  they  who  banished  the  judge  of  the 
Areopagus  because  he  flung  away  the  bird  which  had 
sought  shelter  in  his  bosom  ? 


20. 

>     I  return  to  Dr.  Arnold. 

He  laments  the  neglect  of  our  cathedrals,  and  the 
absurd  confusion  in  so  many  men's  minds  "  between 
what  is  really  Popery,  and  what  is  but  wisdom  and 
beauty  adopted  by  the  Roman  Catholics  and  neg- 
lected by  us." 

21. 

He  says,  "  Then,  only,  can  opportunities  of  evil 
be  taken  from  us,  when  we  lose  also  all  opportunity 
of  doing  or  becoming  good."  An  obvious,  even  com- 
mon-place thought,  well  and  tersely  expressed.  The 
inextricable  co-relation  and  apparent  antagonism  of 
good  and  evil  were  never  more  strongly  put. 


. 


laim  it 
f  that, 
aand's- 
[  at  a 
all  into 
inot  or 
ed  the 
r,  who, 

DS. 

lone  to 
of  th« 
Loh  had 


,nd  the 
etween 
m  and 
i  neg' 


bf  evil 
tanity 

H  com- 
The 
sm  of 


I 


OR.   ARNOLD. SCHOOL   LIFE. 


S8. 


191 


The  defeat  of  Varus  by  the  Germans,  and  the 
defeat  of  the  Moors  by  Charles  Martel,  he  ranked  as 
the  two  most  important  battles  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  I  see  why.  The  first,  because  it  decided 
whether  the  north  of  Europe  was  to  be  completely 
Latinised ;  the  second,  because  it  decided  whether  all 
Europe  was  to  be  completely  Mahomedanised. 

28. 

<'  How  can  he  who  labours  hard  for  his  daily 
bread — ^hardly  and  with  doubtful  success — be  made 
wise  and  good,  and  therefore  how  can  he  be  made 
happy  7  This  question  undoubtedly  the  Church  was 
meant  to  solve;  for  Christ's  kingdom  was  to  undo 
the  evil  of  Adam's  sin;  but  the  Church  has  not 
solved  it  nor  attempted  to  do  so,  and  no  one  else  has 
gone  about  it  rightly.  How  shall  the  poor  man  find 
time  to  be  educated  ?  " 

This  question,  which  '*  the  Church  has  not  yet 
solved,"  men  have  now  set  their  wits  to  solve  for 
themselves. 

M. 

When  in  Italy,  he  writes : — ^"  It  is  almost  awful 
to  look  at  the  beauty  which  surrounds  me  and  then 
think  of  moral  evil.  It  seems  as  if  heaven  and  hell, 
instead  of  being  separated  by  a  great  gulf  from  us 


/" 


102 


KOTKS  FROM  BOOKS. 


and  from  each  other,  were  close  at  hand  and  on  eaoh 
other's  confines." 

''  Might  but  the  sense  of  moral  evil  be  as  strong 
in  me  as  is  my  delight  in  external  beauty  1" 

A  prayer  I  echo,  Amen  I  if  by  the  sense  he  mean 
the  abhorrence  of  it;  otherwise  to  be  perpetually 
haunted  with  the  perception  of  moral  evil  were 
dreadful;  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  half  ashamed 
sometimes  of  a  conscious  shrinking  within  myself 
from  the  sense  of  moral  evil,  merely  as  I  should 
shrink  from  external  filth  and  deformity,  as  hateful 
to  perception  and  recollection,  rather  than  as  hateful 
to  God  and  subversive  of  goodness. 


26. 

Here  is  a  very  striking  passage.  He  says,  *^  A* 
great  school  is  very  trying;  it  never  can  present 
images  of  rest  and  peace ;  and  when  the  spring  and 
activity  of  youth  are  altogether  unsanctified  by  any- 
thing pure  and  elevated  in  its  desires,  it  becomes  a 
spectacle  that  is  dizzying  and  almost  more  morally 
distressing  than  the  shouts  and  gambols  of  a  set  of 
lunatics.  It  is  very  startling  to  see  so  much  of  sin 
combined  with  so  little  of  sorrow.  In  a  parish, 
amongst  the  poor,  whatever  of  sin  exists  there  is  sure 
also  to  be  enough  of  suffering :  poverty,  sickness,  and 
old  age  are  mighty  tamers  and  chaslisers.  fiut,  with 
boys  of  the  richer  classes,  one  sees  nothing  but 
plenty,  health,  and  youth ;  and  these  are  really  awful 


I  ! 


DR.   ARirOLD. — SCHOOL  LIFB. 


103 


on  each 

kS  strong 

he  mean 
rpetually 
^il  were 
ashamed 
I  myself 
[  should 
I  hateful 
9  hateful 


ays» 


«A' 


present 
ring  and 
by  any- 
oomes  a 
morally 
a  set  of 
of  sin 
parish, 
is  sure 
ess,  and 
bt,  with 
ing  but 
y  awful 


to  behold,  when  one  must  feel  that  they  are  un- 
blessed. On  the  other  hand,  few  things  are  more 
beautiful  than  when  one  does  see  all  holy  and  noble 
thoughts  and  principles,  not  the  forced  growth  of 
pain,  or  infirmity,  or  privation,  but  springing  up  as 
by  God's  immediate  planting,  in  a  sort  of  garden  of 
all  that  is  fresh  and  beautiful ;  full  of  so  much  hope 
for  this  world  as  well  as  for  heaven." 

To  this  testimony  of  a  schoolmaster  let  us  add 
the  testimony  of  a  schoolboy.  De  Quincey  thus  do- 
scribes  in  himself  the  transition  from  boyhood  to 
manhood :  "  Then  first  and  suddenly  were  brought 
powerfully  before  me  the  change  which  was  worked 
in  the  aspects  of  society  by  the  presence  of  woman ; 
woman,  pure,  thoughtful,  noble,  coming  before  me  as 
Pandora  crowned  with  perfections.  Bight  over 
against  this  ennobling  spectacle,  with  equal  sudden- 
ness, I  placed  the  odious  spectacle  of  schoolboy 
society — no  matter  in  what  region  of  the  earth,— 
schoolboy  society,  so  frivolous  in  the  matter  of  its 
disputes,  often  so  brutal  in  the  manner ;  so  childish 
and  yet  so  remote  from  simplicity ;  so  foolishly  care- 
less, and  yet  so  revoltingly  selfish ;  dedicated  osten- 
sibly to  learning,  and  yet  beyond  any  section  of 
human  beings  so  conspicuously  ignorant." 

There  is  a  reverse  to  this  picture,  as  I  hope  and 
believe.  If  I  have  met  with  those  who  looked  back 
on  their  school- days  with  horror,  as  having  first  con- 
taminated them  with  '*  evil  communication,"  I  have 

9 


104 


NOTSB   FBOM  BOOKS. 


met  with  others  whose  remembrances  were  all  of  sunr 
shine,  of  early  friendships,  of  joyous  sports.  ' 

Nor  do  I  think  that  a  large  school  composed 
wholly  of  girls  is  in  any  respect  better.  In  the  low 
languid  tone  of  mind,  the  petulant  tempers,  the  small 
spitefulnesses,  the  cowardly  concealments,  the  com- 
pressed or  ill-directed  energies,  the  precocious  vani- 
ties and  a£fectations,  many  such  congregations  of 
Femmelettes  would  form  a  worthy  pendant  to  the 
picture  of  boyish  turbulence  and  vulgarity  drawn  by 
De  Quincey. 

I  am  convinced  from  my  own  recollections,  and 
from  all  I  have  learned  from  experienced  teachers  in 
large  schools,  that  one  of  the  most  fatal  mistakes  in 
the  training  of  children  has  been  the  too  early  sepa- 
ration of  the  sexes.  I  say,  has  been,  because  I  find 
that  everywhere  this  most  dangerous  prejudice  has 
been  giving  way  before  the  light  of  truth  and  a  more 
general  acquaintance  with  that  primal  law  of  nature, 
which  ought  to  teach  us  that  the  more  we  can  assimi- 
late on  a  large  scale  the  public  to  the  domestic  train- 
ing, the  better  for  all.  There  exists  still,  the  im- 
pression— in  the  higher  classes  especially — that  in 
early  education,  the  mixture  of  the  two  sexes  would 
tend  to  make  the  girls  masculine  and  the  boys  effe- 
minate, but  experience  shows  us  that  it  is  all  the 
other  way.  Boys  learn  a  manly  and  protecting  ten- 
derness, and  the  girls  become  at  once  more  feminine 
a|id  more  truthful.    Where  this  association  has  begun 


t* 


X.'M 


DR.    ARNOLD. — SCHOOL   UFK. 


196 


ill  of  f  UQ* 

t 

oomposedi 
[n  the  low 
the  small 
the  oom- 
3iou8  vaui- 
ratioDS  of 
int  to  the 
drawn  by 

Qtions,  and 
Leachers  in 
nistakes  in 
early  sepa- 
ause  I  find 
adice  has 
ind  a  more 
of  nature, 
can  assimi* 
estio  train- 
1,  the  im- 
r — that  in 
exes  would 
boys  eflfe- 
is  all  the 
acting  ten- 
I  feminine 
has  begun 


^ 


early  enough,  that  is,  before  five  years  old,  and  has 
been  continued  till  about  ten  or  twelve,  it  has  uni- 
formly worked  well;  on  this  point  the  evidence  is 
unanimous  and  decisive.  So  long  ago  as  1812,  Fran- 
cis Horner,  in  describing  a  school  he  visited  at  En- 
more,  near  Bridgewater,  speaks  with  approbation  of 
the  boys  and  the  girls  standing  up  together  in  the 
same  class;  it  is  the  first  mention,  I  find,  of  this 
innovation  on  the  old  collegiate,  or  charity-school 
plan, — itself  a  continuation  of  the  monkish  discipline. 
He  says,  "I  liked  much  the  placing  the  boys  and 
girls  together  at  an  early  age;  it  gave  the  boys  a 
new  spur  to  emulation."  When  I  have  seen  a  class 
of  girls  stand  up  together,  there  has  been  a  sort  of 
empty  tittering,  a  vacancy  in  the  faces,  an  inertness, 
which  made  it,  as  I  thought,  very  up-hill  work  for 
the  teacher ;  so  when  it  was  a  class  of  boys,  there 
has  been  often  a  sluggishness — a  tendency  to  ruffian 
tricks — requiring  perpetual  e£fort  on  the  part  of  the 
master.  In  teaching  a  class  of  boys  and  girls,  accus- 
tomed to  stand  up  together,  there  is  little  or  nothing 
of  this.  They  are  brighter,  readier,  better  behaved ; 
there  is  a  kind  of  mutual  influence  working  for  good ; 
and  if  there  be  emulation,  it  is  not  mingled  with 
envy  or  jealousy.  Mischief,  such  as  might  be  appre- 
hended, is  in  this  case  far  less  likely  to  arise  than 
where  boys  and  girls,  habitually  separated  from 
infancy,  are  first  thrown  together,  just  at  the  age 
when  the  feelings  are  first  awakened  and  the  associ- 


106 


NOTES   TROM   BOOKS. 


Btion  has  all  the  ezoitement  of  novelty.  A  yery 
intelligent  schoolmaster  assured  me  that  he  had  had 
more  trouble  with  a  class  of  fifty  boys  than  with  a 
school  of  three  hundred  boys  and  girls  together  (in 
the  midst  of  whom  I  found  him),  and  that  there  were 
no  inconveniences  resulting  which  a  wise  and  careful 
and  efficient  superintendence  could  not  control. 
*'  There  is,"  said  he,  "  not  only  more  emulation,  more 
quickness  of  brain,  but  altogether  a  superior  healthi- 
ness of  tone,  body  and  mind,  where  the  boys  and 
girls  are  trained  together  till  about  ten  years  old ; 
and  it  extends  into  their  after  life; — I  should  say 
because  it  is  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  God  in 
forming  us  with  mutual  sympathies,  moral  and  intel- 
lectual, and  mutual  dependence  for  help  from  the 
very  beginning  of  life." 

What  is  curious  enough,  I  find  many  people- 
fathers,  mothers,  teachers, — who  are  agreed  that  in 
the  schools  for  the  lower  classes,  the  two  sexes  may 
be  safely  and  advantageously  associated,  yet  have  a 
sort  of  horror  of  the  idea  of  such  an  innovation  in 
schools  for  the  higher  classes.  One  would  like  to 
know  the  reason  for  such  a  distinction,  instead  of 
being  encountered,  as  is  usual,  by  a  sneer  or  a  vile 
innuendo. 


'*^ 


f 


NIKBUHR. 


197 


MIEBUDB. 
tnra  aho  unruM,  18611 

26. 

In  a  letter  to  a  young  student  in  philology  there 
are  noble  passages  in  nvhich  I  truly  sympathise.  He 
says,  among  other  things :  "  I  wish  you  had  less 
pleasure  in  satires,  not  excepting  those  of  Horace. 
Turn  to  the  works  which  elevate  the  heart,  in  which 
you  contemplate  great  men  and  great  events,  and 
live  in  a  higher  world.  Turn  away  from  those  which 
represent  the  mean  and  contemptible  side  of  ordinary 
circumstances  and  degenerate  days:  they  are  not 
suitable  for  the  young,  who  in  ancient  times  would 
not  have  been  su£fered  to  have  them  in  their  hands. 
Homer,  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  Pindar, — these  are  the 
poets  for  youth."  And  again:  "  Do  not  read  the 
ancient  authors  in  order  to  make  aesthetic  reflections 
on  them,  but  in  order  to  drink  in  their  spirit  and  to 
fill  your  soul  with  their  thoughts;  and  in  order  to 
gain  that  by  reading  which  you  would  have  gained  by 
reverently  listening  to  the  discourses  of  great  men." 

We  should  turn  to  works  of  art  with  the  same 
feeling. 

On  the  whole,  all  my  own  educational  experience 
has  shown  me  the  dangerous — in  some  cases  fatal — 
effects  on  the  childish  intellect,  where  precocious 
criticism  was  encouraged,  and  where  caricatures  and 


198 


NOTES   FROM  BOOKS. 


ill,' 


ngly  disproportioned  figures,  expressing  vile  or  ridi- 
cule us  emotions,  were  placed  before  the  eyes  of  chil- 
dren, as  a  means  of  amusement. 

If  I  were  a  legislator  I  would  forbid  travesties 
and  ridiculous  burlesques  of  Shakspeare's  finest  and 
most  serious  dramas  to  be  acted  in  our  theatres. 
That  this  has  been  done  and  recently  (as  in  the  case 
of  the  Merchant  of  Venice)  seems  to  me  a  national 
disgrace.         \  '  '    " 


m* 


"It  is  strange,  confounding,  to  hear  Niebuhr 
speak  thus  of  Goethe  : — 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Goethe  is  utterly 
destitute  of  susceptibility  to  Impressions  from  the  fine 
arts."  (!!)  He  afterwards  does  more  justice  to 
Goethe — certainly  one  of  the  profoundest  critics  in 
art  who  ever  lived ;  although  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  his  was  an  educated  perception  rather  than  a 
natural  sensibility.  Niebuhr's  criticism  on  Goethe's 
Italian  travels, — on  Goethe's  want  of  sympathy  with 
the  people, — his  regarding  the  whole  country  and  na- 
tion simply  as  a  sort  of  bazaar  of  art  and  antiquities, 
an  exhibition  of  beauty  and  a  recreation  for  himself; 
his  habit  of  surveying  all  moral  and  intellectual 
greatness,  all  that  speaks  to  the  heart,  with  a  kind 
of  patronising  superiority,  as  if  created  for  his  use, — 
and  finding  amusement  in  the  folly,  degeneracy,  and 
corruption  of  the  people ; — all  this  appears  to  mo 


le  or  ridi- 
es  of  chil- 

travesties 
finest  and 
theatres. 
a.  the  case 
Ek  national 

Niebuhr 

is  utterly 
pi  the  fine 
ustice  to 
critics  in 

to  think 
er  than  a 

Goethe's 
athy  with 
y  and  na- 
itiquities, 

himself; 
tellectual 
h  a  kind 
lis  use, — 
racy,  and 
•a  to  mo 


^      NIBBUHR. 


199 


admirable,  and  so  far  I  had  strong  sympathy  with 
Niebuhr ;  for  I  well  remember  that  in  reading 
Goethe's  ''  Italianische  Reise,"  I  had  the  same  per- 
ception of  the  heartless  and  the  superficial  in  point 
of  feeling,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  that  was  fine  and 
valuable  in  criticism.  It  is  well  to  be  artistic  in  art, 
but  not  to  walk  about  the  world  en  artiste,  studying 
humanity,  and  the  deepest  human  interests,  as  if  they 
were  art. 

Niebuhr  afterwards  says,  in  speaking  of  Bome, 
'*  I  am  sickened  here  of  art,  as  I  should  be  of  sweet- 
meats instead  of  bread."  So  it  must  be  where  art  is 
separated  wholly  from  morals.  r.  ■> 

28. 

He  speaks  of  the  "wretched  superstition,"  and 
the  "  utter  incapacity  for  piety  "  in  the  people  of  the 
Boman  States. 

Superstition  and  the  want  of  piety  go  together ; 
and  the  combination  is  not  peculiar  to  the  Italians, 
nor  to  the  Boman  Catholic  faith. 

29. 

In  speaking  of  the  education  of  his  son,  he  depre- 
cates the  learning  by  rote  of  hymns.  "  To  a  happy 
child,  hymns  deploring  the  misery  of  human  life  are 
without  meaning."  (And  worse.)  ''  So  likewise  to  a 
good  child  are  those  expressing  self-accusation  and 


200 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


M 


contrition."      (He  might  have  added,  and  self-ap- 
plause.) 

I  am  quite  sure,  from  my  own  experience  of  chil- 
dren who  have  been  allowed  to  learn  penitential 
psalms  and  hymns,  that  they  thiok  of  wickedness  as 
a  sort  of  thing  which  gives  them  self-importance. 


'''^■,'i^<?. 


80. 


"  Only  what  the  mind  takes  in  willingly  can  it 
assimilate  with  itself,  and  make  its  own,  part  of  its 
life." 

A  truism  of  the  greatest  value  in  education  ;  but 
who  thinks  of  it  when  cramming  children's  minds 
with  all  sorts  of  distasteful  heterogeneous  things  ? 

-'■'^  '   '   '■   ■  '■    ■       -  -31.  ■  -    -       "'' 

" When  reflection  has  become  too  onesided  and 
too  domineering  over  a  deeply  feeling  heart,  it  is  apt 
to  lead  us  into  errors  in  our  treatment  of  others." 

And  all  that  follows — very  wise  !  for  the  want  of 
this  reflection  leaves  us  stranded  and  wrecked  through 
feeling  and  perception  merely. 

....     ^    ,  .    -  ,.  82. 

Very  curious  and  interesting,  as  a  trait  of  char- 
acter and  feeling,  is  the  passage  in  which  he  repre- 
sents himself,  in  the  dangerous  confinement  of  his 
second  wife,  as  praying  to  his  first  wife  for  succour. 


self-ap- 

J  of  ohil- 
initential 
idness  as 
nee. 


ly  can  it 
irt  of  its 

ion ;  but 
's  minds 
ings  ? 


ded  and 
it  is  apt 


ers 


» 


want  of 
through 


of  char- 
le  repre- 
it  of  his 
succour. 


NIKBUHR. 


201 


"  In  my  terrible  anxiety,"  he  says,  "  I  prayed  most 
earnestly,  and  entreated  my  Milly,  too,  for  help.  I 
comforted  Gretchen  by  telling  her  that  Milly  would 
send  help.  When  she  was  at  the  worst,  she  sighed 
out,  *  Ah,  cannot  your  Amelia  send  me  a  blessing  ? ' " 
This  is  curious  from  a  Protestant  and  a  philoso- 
pher. It  shows  that  there  may  be  something  nearly 
allied  to  our  common  nature  in  the  Roman  Catholic 
invocation  to  the  saints,  and  to  the  souls  of  the  dead. 

83.  "     ^    '^ 

Niebuhr,  speaking  of  a  lady  (Madame  von  der 
Recke,  I  think, — the  "Elise"  of  Goethe)  who  had 
patronised  him,  says,  "  I  will  receive  roses  and  myr- 
tles from  female  hands,  but  no  laurels." 

This  makes  one  smile ;  for  most  of  the  laurels 
which  Niebuhr  will  receive  in  this  country  will  be 
through  female  hands — through  the  admirable  trans- 
lation and  arrangement  of  his  life  and  letters  by  Su- 
sanna Winkworth.  *  ^  .-      vr 

'  '  ■'  •  ■■■.■' 

84. 

The  following  I  read  with  cordial  agreement : — 
"  While  I  am  ready  to  adopt  any  well-grounded 
opinion  "  (regarding,  I  suppose,  mere  facts,  or  specu- 
lations as  to  things),  "  my  inmost  soul  revolts  against 
receiving  the  judgment  of  others  respecting  persons ; 
and  whenever  I  have  done  so  I  have  bitterly  repented 

of  it."  ^       •  -  .-.    ^        '  '^  i -;■,._*?- 


•i- 


202 


NOTES  FROM  BOOKS. 


86. 


fa 


I*. 


He  says,  ''I  cannot  worship  the  abstraction  of 
Virtue.  She  only  charms  me  when  she  addresses 
herself  to  my  heart,  and  speaks  thus  the  love  from 
which  she  springs.  I  really  loye  nothing  but  what 
actually  exists." 

What  does  actually  exist  to  us  but  that  which  we 
believe  in  ?  and  where  we  strongly  love  do  we  not 
believe  sometimes  in  the  unreal  ?  is  it  not  then  tho 
existing  and  the  actual  to  us  ? 


W 


""#»>' 


36. 


%t 


''  A  faculty  of  a  quite  peculiar  kind,  and  for 
which  we  have  no  word,  is  the  recognition  of  the  in- 
comprehensible. It  is  something  which  distinguishes 
the  seer  from  the  ordinary  learned  man."  :i. 

.^  But  in  religion  this  is  faith.  Does  Niebuhr  ad* 
mit  this  kind  of  faith,  ''  the  recognition  of  the  incom- 
prehensible," in  philosophy  and  not  in  religion  ?  for 
he  often  complains  of  the  want  in  himself  of  any  faith 
but  an  historic  faith. 


"In  times  of  good  fortune  it  is  easy  to  appear 
great — nay,  even  to  act  greatly ;  but  in  misfortune 
very  difficult.  The  greatest  man  will  commit  blun- 
ders in  misfortune,  because  the  want  of  proportion  be- 
tween his  means  and  his  ends  progressively  increases, 


iction  of 
iddresses 
ove  from 
but  what 

which  we 

io  we  not 
;  then  the 


W 


and  for 
of  the  in- 
inguishes 

ebuhr  ad* 
16  incom- 
riou?  for 
any  faith 


0  appear 
isfortune 
ait  blun- 
>rtion  be- 
ncreases, 


4^-      NIEBUHR.       «i|r 


203 


and  his  inward  strength  is  exhausted  in  fruitless 
cflForts." 

This  is  true ;  but  under  all  extremes  of  good  or 
evil  fortune  we  are  apt  to  commit  mistakes,  because 
the  tide  of  the  mind  does  not  flow  equally,  but  rushes 
along  impetuously  in  a  flood,  or  brokenly  and  dis- 
tractedly in  a  rocky  channel,  where  its  strength  is 
exhausted  in  conflict  and  pain.  The  extreme  pres- 
sure of  circumstances  will  produce  extremes  of  feel- 
ing in  minds  of  a  sensitive  rather  than  a  firm  cast. 

This  next  passage  is  curious  as  a  scholar's  opinion 
of  "free  trade "  in  the  year  1810  ;  though  I  believe 
the  phrase  "free  trade"  was  not  even  invented  at 
that  time — certainly  not  in  use  in  the  statesman's 
vocabulary. 

"  I  presume  you  will  admit  that  commerce  is  a 
good  thing,  and  the  first  requisite  in  the  life  of  any 
nation.  It  appears  to  me,  that  this  much  has  now 
been  palpably  demonstrated,  namely,  that  an  ad- 
vanced and  complicated  social  condition  like  this  in 
which  we  live  can  only  be  maintained  by  establishing 
mutual  relationships  between  the  most  remote  na- 
tions ;  and  that  the  limitation  of  commerce  would, 
like  the  sapping  of  a  main  pillar,  inevitably  occasion 
the  fall  of  the  whole  edifice ;  and  also  that  commerce 
is  so  essentially  beneficial  and  in  accordance  with 
man's  nature,  that  the  well-being  of  each  nation  is  an 


m 


-I 


204 


IVOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


tt 


advantage  to  all  the  nations  that  stand  in  connection 
with  it."  ^  '        i  .« 

It  is  strange  how  long  we  have  heen  (forty  years, 
and  more),  in  recognising  these  simple  principles; 
and  in  Germany,  where  they  were  first  enunciated, 
they  are  not  recognised  yet.  „         ,       , 


■■:*>•  ■<> ' 


=8  Jr- 


CHAEAOTEE  OF  DEMADE8. 

(FROM  mKBUHB'S  LKOTCBRS.) 

39. 
"  By  his  wit  and  his  talent,  and  more  especially  hy 
his  gift  as  an  improvisatore,  he  rose  so  high  that  he 
exercised  a  great  influence  upon  the  people,  and 
sometimes  was  more  popular  even  than  Demosthenes. 
With  a  shamelessness  amounting  to  honesty,  he 
bluntly  told  the  people  every  thing  he  felt  and  what 
all  the  populace  felt  with  him.  When  hearing  such 
a  man  the  populace  felt  at  their  ease  ;  he  gave  them 
the  feeling  that  they  might  he  wicked  without  being 
disgraced,  and  this  excites  with  such  people  a  feeling 
of  gratitude.  There  is  a  remarkable  passage  in 
Plato,  where  he  shows  that  those  who  deliver  hollow 
speeches,  without  being  in  earnest,  have  no  power  or 
influence  ;  whereas  others,  who  are  devoid  of  mental 
culture,  but  say  in  a  straightforward  manner  what 
they  ,thiuk  and  feel,  exercise  great  power.  It  was 
this  which  in  the  eighteenth  century  gave  the  mate- 
rialist philosophy  in  France  such  enormous  influence 


mneotion 

pty  years, 
inciples ; 
unciated, 


».  ■ 

1  's 

jcially  by 

L  that  he 

)ple,  and 

osthenes. 

lesty,   he 

Eind  what 

ing  such 

ive  them 

ut  being 

a  feeling 

ssage  in 

r  hollow 

)ower  or 

mental 

er  what 

It  was 

le  mate- 

nfluence 


>^     LORD   BACON. 


205 


with  the  higher  classes ;  for  they  were  told  there  was 
no  need  to  be  ashamed  of  the  vulgarest  sensuality ; 
formerly  people  had  been  ashamed,  but  now  a  man 
learned  that  he  might  be  a  brutal  sensualist  provided 
he  did  not  offend  against  elegant  manners  and  social 
conventionalism.  People  rejoiced  at  hearing  a  man 
openly  and  honestly  say  what  they  themselves  felt. 
Demades  was  a  remarkable  character.  He  was  not 
a  bad  man ;  and  I  like  him  much  better  than  Es- 
chines." 

What  an  excuse,  what  a  sanction  is  here  for  the 
demagogues  who  direct  the  worst  passions  of  men  to 
the  worst  and  the  most  selfish  purposes,  and  the 
most  debasing  consequences  !  Demades  "  not  a  bad 
man  ?  "  then  what  is  a  bad  man  ?  -  • ' 


LOED  BACON. 

(1849.)  .     -  ^ 

40.      "  .'     ■'    ;'  ';■ 

"  It  was  not  the  pure  knowledge  of  nature  and  uni- 
versality, but  it  was  the  proud  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil,  with  an  intent  in  man  to  give  the  law  unto 
himself,  which  was  the  form  of  the  hrst  temptation." 
But,  in  this  sense,  the  first  temptation  is  only  the 
type  of  the  perpetual  and  ever-present  temptation — 
the  temptation  into  which  we  are  to  fall  through  ne- 
cessity, that  we  may  rise  through  love. 


206 


NOTXft  FROM  BOORS. 


41. 


'% 


Hero  is  an  excellent  passage — a  severe  commen* 
tarjr  on  the  unsound,  unchristian,  unphilosophioal, 
distinction  between  morals  and  politics  in  goveri); 
ment : — 

^  "  Although  men  bred  in  learning  are  perhaps  to 
seek  in  points  of  convenience  and  reasons  of  state 
and  accommodations  for  the  present,  yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  recompense  this  they  are  perfect  in 
those  same  plain  grounds  of  religion,  justice,  honour, 
and  moral  virtue  which,  if  they  be  well  and  watch* 
fully  pursued,  there  will  be  seldom  use  of  those  other 
expedients,  no  more  than  of  physio  in  a  sound,  well- 
directed  body." 


m 


42. 


"  Now  (in  the  time  of  Lord  Bacon,  that  is),  now 
sciences  are  delivered  to  be  believed  and  accepted, 
and  not  to  be  farther  discovered;  and  therefore, 
sciences  stand  at  a  clog,  and  have  done  for  many 


M 


ages 

In  the  present  time,  this  is  true  only,  or  espe- 
cially, of  theology  as  an  art,  and  divinity  as  a  science ; 
so  made  by  the  schoolmen  of  former  ages,  and  not 
yet  emancipated.  -i. 

^'  43. 

<■    <<  Generally  he  perceived  in  men  of  devout  simpli- 
city this  opinion,  that  the  secrets  of  nature  were  the 


■il 


LORD   BAOOV.       i 


S07 


lommen- 
iophioal, 
govern- 

rhaps  to 
of  state 
on  tho 
srfect  in 
honour, 
1  watch* 
se  other 
ad,  woU- 

is),  now 
ccepted, 
lerefore, 
r  many 

or  espe- 
ioienoe ; 
md  not 


simpli- 
ere  the 


secrets  of  God,  part  of  that  glory  into  which  man  if 
not  to  press  too  boldly." 

God  has  placed  no  limits  to  the  exercise  of  the 
intellect  he  has  given  us  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 
But  not  the  less  will  he  keep  his  own  secrets  from 
us.  Has  ho  not  proved  it?  who  has  opened  that 
door  to  the  knowledge  of  a  future  being  which  it  has 
pleased  him  to  keep  shut  fast,  though  watched  by 
hope  and  by  faith  ? 

44. 

The  Christian  philosophy  of  these  latter  times 
appears  to  be  foreshadowed  in  the  following  sentence, 
where  he  speaks  of  such  as  have  ventured  to  deduce 
and  confirm  the  truth  of  tho  Christian  religion  from 
the  principles  and  authorities  of  philosophers :  "  Thus 
with  great  pomp  and  solemnity  celebrating  the  inter* 
marriage  of  faith  and  sense  as  a  lawful  conjunction, 
and  soothing  the  minds  of  men  with  a  pleasing 
variety  of  matter,  though,  at  the  same  time,  rashly 
and  unequally  intermixing  things  divine  and  things 
human." 

This  last  common- place  distinction  seems  to  me, 
however,  unworthy  of  Bacon.  It  should  be  banished 
— utterly  set  aside.  Things  which  are  divine  should 
be  human,  and  things  which  are  human,  divine ;  not 
as  a  mixture,  "  a  medley,"  in  the  sense  of  Bacon^s 
words,  but  an  interfusion ;  for  nothing  that  we  esteem 
divine  can  be  anything  to  us  but  as  we  make  it  oi^5, 


208 


N0TX8   FROM  BdOKS. 


t.  e.  humanise  it;  and  our  humanity  were  a  poor 
thing  but  for  "  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us."  We 
do  injury  to  our  own  nature — we  misconceive  our  re- 
lations to  the  Creator,  to  his  universe,  and  to  each 
other,  so  long  as  we  separate  and  studiously  keep 
wide  apart  the  divine  and  the  hunuMi. 


46. 

"  Let  no  man,  upon  a  weak  conceit  of  sobriety  or 
an  ill-applied  moderation,  think  or  maintain  that  a 
man  can  search  too  far  or  be  too  well  studied  either 
in  the  book  of  God's  word  or  the  book  of  God's 
works."  Well  advised  I  But  then  he  goes  on  to 
warn  men  that  they  do  not  "  unwisely  mingle  or  con- 
found their  learnings  together : "  mischievous  this 
contradistinction  between  God's  word  and  God's 
Works ;  since  both,  if  emanating  from  him,  must  be 
equally  true.  And  if  there  be  one  truth,  then,  to 
borrow  his  own  words  in  another  place,  "  the  voice 
of  nature  will  consent,  whether  the  voice  of  man  do 
so  or  not." 

46. 

Apropos  to  education — here  is  a  good  illustration : 
"  Were  it  not  better  for  a  man  in  a  fair  room  to  set 
up  one  great  light  or  branching  candlestick  of  lights, 
than  to  go  about  with  a  rushlight  into  every  dark 
corner  ?  " 

And  here  is  another :  "  It  is  one  thing  to  set 


LORD  BACON. 


200 


A  poor 
1."  We 
our  re- 
^0  each 
y  koop 


forth  what  ground  lieth  unmanured,  and  another  to 
correct  ill  husbandry  in  that  which  is  manured." 


piety  or 

that  a 

I  either 

f  God's 

I  on  to 

or  con- 

us  this 

God's 

nust  be 

len,  to 

e  voice 

nan  do 


ration : 
1  to  set 
lights, 
y  dark 

to  set 


r^-  ''  It  is  without  all  controversy  that  learning  doth 
make  the  minds  of  men  gentle  and  generous,  ami- 
able and  pliant  to  government,  whereas  ignorance 
maketh  them  churlish,  thwarting,  and  mutinous." 

*> 

48. 

"  An  impatience  of  doubt  and  an  unadvised  haste 
to  assertion  without  due  and  mature  suspension  of 
the  judgment,  is  an  error  in  the  conduct  of  the  un- 
derstanding." ni. 

"  In  contemplation,  if  a  man  begin  with  certainties 
he  shall  end  in  doubts,  but  if  he  will  be  content  to 
begin  with  doubts  he  shall  end  in  certainties."  Well 
said  and  profoundly  true. 

This  is  a  celebrated  and  often-cited  passage ;  an 
admitted  principle  in  theory.  I  wish  it  were  oftener 
applied  in  practice, — more  especially  in  education. 
For  it  seems  to  me  that  in  teaching  children  we 
ought  not  to  be  perpetually  dogmatising.  We  ought 
not  to  be  ever  placing  before  them  only  the  known 
and  the  definite  ;  but  to  allow  the  unknown,  the  un- 
certain, the  indefinite,  to  be  suggested  to  their  minds : 
it  would  do  more  for  the  growth  of  a  truly  religious 
feeling  than  all  the  catechisms  of  scientific  facts  and 
creeds  of  theological  definitions  that  ever  were  taught 


SIO 


N0TS8  7R0M  BOOKS. 


r-i 


in  oat  and  dried  qnestion  and  answer.  Why  shonld 
not  the  young  candid  mind  be  allowed  to  reflect  on 
the  unknown,  as  such  ?  on  the  doubtful,  as  such — 
open  to  inquiry  and  liable  to  discussion  ?  Why  will 
teachers  suppose  that  in  confessing  their  own  ignor- 
ance or  admitting  uncertainties  they  must  diminish 
the  respect  of  their  pupils,  or  their  faith  in  truth  1  I 
should  say  from  my  own  experience  that  the  effect  is 
just  the  reverse.  I  remember  when  a  child,  hearing 
a  very  celebrated  man  profess  his  ignorance  on  some 
particular  subject,  and  I  felt  awe-struck — it  gave  me 
a  perception  of  the  infinite, — as  when  looking  up  at 
the  starry  sky.  What  we  unadvisedly  cram  into  a 
child's  mind  in  the  same  form  it  has  taken  in  our 
own,  does  not  always  healthily  or  immediately  assimi- 
late ;  it  dissolves  away  in  doubts,  or  it  hardens  into 
prejudice,  instead  of  mingling  with  the  life  as  truth 
ought  to  do.  It  is  the  early  and  habitual  surrender- 
ing of  the  mind  to  authority,  which  makes  it  after- 
wards so  ready  for  deception  of  all  kinds.  ^ri 


,  ii^i* 


49. 


i.  He  speaks  of  "  legends  and  narrations  of  miracles 
wrought  by  martyrs,  hermits,  monks,  which,  though 
they  have  had  passage  for  a  time  by  the  ignorance 
of  the  people,  the  superstitious  simplicity  of  some, 
and  the  politic  toleration  of  others,  holding  them  but 
as  divine  poesies ;   yet  after  a  time  they  grew  up  to 


m 


..::^m.-m/-r^  4?^^  ill;. 


'•*5T 


•«^ 


,,t.  LOKD  BAOOV. 


311 


r  ihoald 
ifleot  on 
I  Buoh — 
7hy  will 
n  ignor- 
liminish 
•uth?  I 
effect  is 
hearing 
on  some 
gave  me 
ig  up  at 
a  into  a 
in  in  our 
r  assimi- 
ens  into 
Eis  truth 
rrender- 
it  after- 
.•■1   ,•..•,.  ,>>i»f 

miracles 
though 
norance 
f  some, 
lem  but 
up  to 


be  esteemed  but  as  old  wives'  fabl«f ,  to  tb«  great 
scandal  and  detriment  of  religion  " 

Very  ambiguous,  surely.  Does  he  mean  that  it 
was  to  the  great  scandal  and  detriment  of  religion 
that  they  existed  at  all?  or  that  they  came  to  be 
regarded  as  old  wives'  fables  ? 

*  60. 

He  says,  farther  on,  "  though  truth  and  error  are 
carefully  to  be  separated,  yet  rarities  and  reports 
that  seem  incredible  are  not  to  be  suppressed  or 
denied  to  the  memory  of  men." 

"  For  it  is  not  yet  known  in  what  cases  and  how 
far  effects  attributed  to  superstition  do  participate 
of  natural  causes." 

61. 

*'  To  be  speculative  with  another  man  to  the  end 
to  know  how  to  work  him  or  wind  him,  proceedeth 
from  a  heart  that  is  double  and  cloven,  and  not  en- 
tire and  ingenuous ;  which,  as  in  friendship,  it  is  a 
want  of  integrity y  so  towards  princes  or  superiors  it 
is  a  want  of  duty?''  (No  occasion,  surely,  for  the 
distinction  here  drawn;  inasmuch  as  the  want  of 
integrity  involves  the  want  of  every  duty.)  ^ 

Then  he  speaks  of  '^  the  stooping  to  points  of  ne- 
cessity and  convenience  and  outward  basenesses,"  as  to 
be  accounted  "  submission  to  the  occasion,  not  to  the 
person."     Vile  distinction !  an  excuse  to  himself  for 


212 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


his  dedication  to  the  King,  and  his  flattery  of  Carr 
and  Villiers.    •       ',,r,  -    .:,^    *;;^^>,    1^ 


't.A 


02. 

Our  English  Universities  are  only  now  beginning 
to  show  some  sign  (reluctant  sign)  of  submitting  to 
that  reexamination  which  the  great  philosopher  re- 
commended two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  when 
he  says :  "  Inasmuch  as  most  of  the  usages  and  orders 
of  the  universities  were  derived  from  more  obscure 
times,  it  is  the  more  requisite  they  be  re-examined  " 


— and  more  to  the  same  purpose. 


w 


68. 


^  "  If  that  great  Workmaster  (God)  had  been  of  a 
human  disposition,  he  would  have  cast  the  stars  into 
some  pleasant  and  beautiful  works  and  orders  like 
the  frets  in  the  roofs  of  houses;  whereas,  one  can 
scarce  find  a  posture  in  square  or  triangle  or  straight 
line  amongst  such  an  infinite  number,  so  diflFering  an 
harmony  there  is  between  the  spirit  of  man  and  the 
spirit  of  nature." 

Perhaps  if  our  human  vision  could  be  removed  to 
a  suflficient  distance  to  contemplate  the  whole  of  what 
we  now  see  in  part,  what  appears  disorder  might  ap- 
pear beautiful  order.  The  stars  which  now  appear  as 
if  flung  about  at  random,  would  perhaps  be  resolved 
into  some  exquisitely  beautiful  and  regular  edifice. 


LORD    BACON. 


213 


of  Carr 


)eginniDg 
litting  to 
opher  re- 
igo,  when 
ad  orders 
J  obscure 
lamined  " 


)een  of  a 
stars  into 
ders  like 
one  can 
straight 
Fering  an 
and  the 

noved  to 
of  what 
ight  ap- 
ppear  as 
resolved 
edifice. 


The  fly  on  the  cornice,  "whose  feeble  ray  scarce 
spreads  an  inch  around,"  might  as  well  discuss  the 
proportions  of  the  Parthenon  as  we  the  true  figure 
and  frame  of  God's  universe. 

I  remember  seeing,  through  Lord  Rosse's  teles- 
cope, one  of  those  nebulae  which  have  hitherto  ap- 
peared like  small  masses  of  vapour  floating  about  in 
space.  I  saw  it  composed  of  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands of  brilliant  stars,  and  the  effect  to  the  eye — to 
mine  at  least — was  as  if  I  had  had  my  hand  full  of 
diamonds,  and  suddenly  unclosing  it,  and  flinging 
them  forth,  they  were  dispersed  as  from  a  centre,  in  a 
kind  of  partly  irregular,  partly  fan-like  form  ;  and  I 
had  a  strange  feeling  of  suspense  and  amazement 
while  I  looked,  because  they  did  not  change  their 
relative  position,  did  not  fall — though  in  act  to  fall — 
but  seemed  fixed  in  the  very  attitude  of  being  flung 
forth  into  space ; — it  was  most  wondrous  and  beauti- 
ful to  see ! 

It  is  pleasant  to  me  to  think  that  Bacon's 
stupendous  intellect  believed  in  the  moral  progress 
of  human  societies,  because  it  is  m}^  own  belief,  and 
one  that  I  would  not  for  worlds  resign.  I  indeed 
believe  that  each  human  being  must  here  (or  here- 
after ?)  work  out  his  own  peculiar  moral  life :  but 
also  that  the  whole  race  has  a  progressive  moral  life : 
just  as  in  our  solar  system  every  individual  planet 


214 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


i^,   'Mil 

I-     % 
if     " 


M 


moves  in  its  own  orbit,  while  the  whole  system 
moves  on  together ;  we  know  not  whither,  we  know 
not  round  what  centre — "  ma  pur  si  muove ! "  ' ' 


hi. 


55. 


Yet  he  says  in  another  place,  with  equal  wit  and 
sublimity,  "  Every  obtaining  of  a  desire  hath  a  show 
of  advancement,  as  motion  in  a  circle  hath  a  show  of 
progression."  Perhaps  our  movement  may  be  spiral? 
and  every  revolution  may  bring  us  nearer  and  nearer 
to  some  divine  centre  in  which  we  may  be  absorbed 
at  last  ? 

60. 

He  refers  in  this  following  passage  to  that  theory 
of  the  angelic  existences  which  we  see  expressed  in 
ancient  symbolic  Art,  first  by  variation  of  colour 
only,  and  later,  by  variety  of  expression  and  form. 
He  says, — "  We  find,  as  far  as  credit  is  to  be  given 
to  the  celestial  hierarchy  of  that  supposed  Dionysius, 
the  senator  of  Athens,  that  the  first  place  or  degree 
is  given  to  the  Angels  of  Love,  which  are  called 
Seraphim ;  the  second  to  the  Angels  of  light,  which 
are  termed  Cherubim ;  and  the  third,  and  so  follow- 
ing, to  Thrones,  Principalities,  and  the  rest  (which 
are  all  angels  of  power  and  ministry);  so  as  the 
angels  of  knowledge  and  illumination  are  placed 
before  the  angels  of  ofl&ce  and  domination." 

But  the  Angels  of  Love  are  first  and  over  all. 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


215 


Bjstem 
176  know 


In  other  words,  we  have  here  in  due  order  of  pre- 
cedence, 1.  Love,  2.  Knowledge,  3.  Power, — the 
angelic  Trinity,  which^  in  unity,  is  our  idea  of  God. 


wit  and 
ii  a  show 

show  of 
I  spiral? 
d  nearer 
Etbsorbed 


it  theory 
essed  in 
f  colour 
id  form. 
)e  given 
onysius, 
degree 
called 
,  which 
follow- 
(which 
as  the 
placed 

ver  all. 


Mr 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 

C'MElfOIBES  D'OUTSE-TOMBE."     1851.) 


I 


Chateaubriand  tells  us  that  when  his  mother  and 
sisters  urged  him  to  marry,  he  resisted  strongly — he 
thought  it  too  early ;  he  says  with  a  peculiar  naivet6, 
"  Je  ne  me  sentais  aucune  qualite  de  mari :  toutes 
mes  illusions  ^taient  vivantes,  rien  n'^tait  6puis6  en 
moi,  I'energie  m^me  de  mon  existence  avait  doubU 
par  mes  courses,"  &c. 

So  then  the  "  existence  (puisc  "  is  to  be  kept  for 
the  wife !  "  hi  vie  usee  " — ^"  lajeunesse  abusee,^^  is  good 
enough  to  make  a  husband  !  Chateaubriand,  who  in 
many  passages  of  his  book  piques  himself  on  his 
morality,  seems  quite  unconscious  that  he  has  here 
given  utterance  to  a  sentiment  the  most  profoundly 
immoral,  the  most  fatal  to  both  sexes,  that  even  his 
immoral  age  had  ever  the  effrontery  to  set  forth. 

m. 

"  II  parait  qu'on  n'apprend  pas  k  mourir  en  tuant 
les  autres."  -.  -..-■..       ..  . 


216 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


1 1 


Nor  do  we  learn  to  su£fer  by  inflicting  pain: 
nothing  so  patient  as  pity.  • 

''  Le  cynisme  des  moeurs  ramene  dans  la  societe, 
en  annihilant  le  sens  moral,  une  sorte  de  barbares ;  ces 
barbares  de  la  civilisation,  propres  d  d6truire  comme 
les  Goths,  n'ont  pas  la  puissance  de  fonder  comme 
euz ;  ceuxci  dtaient  les  ^Dormes enfants  d'une  nature 
vierge ;  ceux-la  sont  les  avortons  monstrueux  d'une 
nature  depravee."  U 

We  too  often  make  the  vulgar  mistake  that 
undisciplined  or  overgrown  passions  are  a  sign  of 
strength;  they  are  the  signs  of  immaturity,  of 
"  enormous  childhood." — And  the  distinction  (above) 
is  well  drawn  and  true.  The  real  savage  is  that 
monstrous,  malignant,  abject  thing,  generated  out  of 
the  rottenness  and  ferment  of  civilisation.  And  yet 
extremes  meet :  I  remember  seeing  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Huron  some  Indians  of  a  distant  tribe  of  Chip- 
pawas,  who  in  appearance  were  just  like  those 
fearful  abortions  of  humanity  which  crawl  out  of 
the  darkness,  filth,  and  ignorance  of  our  great  towns, 
just  so  miserable,  so  stupid,  so  cruel, — only,  per- 
haps less  wicked. 

:    Chateaubriand  was  always  comparing  himself  with 
Lord  Byron — he  hints  more  than  once,  that  Lord 


f    ^ 


I 


ng  pain : 


1  societe, 
)ares;  ces 
re  comme 
3r  comme 
ne  nature 
3UX  d'une 

take  that 

a  sign  of 

urity,   of 

n  (above) 

e  is  that 

ed  out  of 

And  yet 

shores  of 

of  Chip. 

i:e    those 

out  of 

at  towns, 

nly,  per- 


CHATEAUBRIAND. 


211 


Byron  owed  some  of  his  inspiration  to  the  perusal 
of  his  works — ^more  especially  to  Ren^e.  In  this  he 
was  altogether  mistaken.  .  • 


61.         „^ _     _, 

"  Une  intelligence  superieure  n'enfante  pas  le  mal 
sans  douleur,  parceque  ce  n'est  pas  son  fruit  naturel, 
et  quWle  ne  devait  pas  le  porter."  ^ 

'  '  62. 

Madame  de  Goeslin  (whom  he  describes  as  an  im- 
personation of  aristocratic  morgue  and  all  the  pre- 
tention and  prejudices  of  the  ancien  regime)^  "  lisant 
dans  un  journal  la  mort  de  plusieurs  rois,  elle  6ta  ses 
lunettes  et  dit  en  se  raouchant,  *  II  y  a  done  une  epi- 
zootie  sur  ces  betes  a  couronne .' '" 

I  once  counted  among  my  friends  an  elderly  lady 
of  high  rank,  who  had  spent  the  whole  of  a  long  life 
in  intimacy  with  royal  and  princely  personages.  In 
three  different  courts  she  had  filled  ojBices  of  trust 
and  offices  of  dignity.  In  referring  to  her  experience 
she  never  either  moralised  or  generaliged ;  but  her 
scorn  of  "  ces  betes  a  couronne,"  was  habitually 
expressed  with  just  such  a  cool  epigrammatic  blunt- 
ness  as  that  of  Madame  de  Coeslin, 


self  with 
at  Lord 


63. 


"  L 'aristocratic  a  trois  dges  successifs  ;  I'dge  des 
Buperiorit6s,  I'dge  des  privileges,  I'age  des  vanit^s ; 

10 


218 


NOTES  TROM   BOOKS. 


sortie  da  premier,  elle  d^g^n^re  dans  le  second  et 
8'6teint  dans  le  dernier." 

In  Germany  they  are  still  in  the  first  epoch.  In 
England  we  seem  to  have  arrived  at  the  second.  In 
France  they  are  verging  on  the  third. 


64. 

Chateaubriand  says  of  himself: — 

"  Dan  le  premier  moment  d'une  offense  je  la  sens 
k  peine ;  mais  elle  se  grave  dans  ma  m^moire ;  son 
souvenir  au  lieu  de  d^croitre,  s'augmente  avec  le 
temps.  II  dort  dans  mon  coeur  des  mois,  des  ann^es 
entidres,  puis  il  se  reveille  ^  la  moindre  oircoustance 
avec  une  force  nouvelle,  et  ma  blessure  devient  plus 
vive  que  le  premier  jour :  mais  si  je  ne  pardonne 
point  a  mes  eunemis  je  ne  leur  fais  aucun  mal ;  je 
suis  rancunier  et  ne  suis  point  vindicatif.^^ 

A  very  nice  and  true  distinction  in  point  of  feel- 
ing and.  character,  yet  hardly  to  be  expressed  in 
English.  We  always  attach  the  idea  of  malignity 
to  the  word  rancour,  whereas  the  French  words 
rancune,  rancunier,  express  the  relentless  without 
the  vengeful  or  malignant  spirit. 

Such  characters  make  me  turn  pale,  as  I  have  done 
at  sight  of  a  tomb  in  which  an  offending  wretch  had 
been  buried  alive.  There  is  in  them  always  some- 
thing acute  and  deep  and  indomitable  in  the  internal 
and  exciting  emotion;  slow,  scrupulous,  and  timid 


OHATBAUBRIAND. 


219 


second  et 

)pooh.    In 
3cond.     In 


I  je  la  sens 
oaoire;  son 
te  aveo  le 
des  ann^es 
irconstance 
3vient  plus 
pardonne 
in  mal;  je 


int  of  feel- 
pressed  in 
malignity 
ich  words 
3S  without 

have  done 
retch  had 
ays  some- 
e  internal 
md  timid 


in  the  external  demonstration.    Cordelia  is  such  a 
character. 

65. 

Chateaubriand  says  of  his  friend  Pelletrie, — "  II 
n'avait  pas  pr^cis^ment  des  vices,  mais  il  ^tait  rong^ 
d'une  vermine  de  petits  defauts  dont  on  ne  pouvait 
I'^purer."  I  know  such  a  man  ;  and  if  he_  had  com- 
mitted a  murder  every  morning,  and  a  highway 
robbery  every  night, — if  he  had  killed  his  father  and 
eaten  him  with  any  possible  sauce,  he  could  not  be 
more  intolerable,  more  detestable  than  he  is  ! 


66. 


DO. 

"  Un  homme  nous  protege  par  ce  qu'il  vaut ; 
IT  ce  que  vous  valez :  voila  pourquoi  de 


femme  par  ce  que  vous  valez :  voila  pourquoi  d( 
deux  empires  I'un  est  si  odieux,  I'autre  si  doux." 


une 
ces 


67. 

He  says  of  Madame  Boland,  '^  Elle  avait  du  carac- 
tere  plutdt  que  du  genie ;  le  premier  peut  donner  le 
second,  le  second  ne  pent  donner  le  premier."  What 
does  the  man  mean  ?  this  is  a  mistake  surely.  What 
the  French  call  caracUre  never  could  give  genius, 
nor  genius,  caractere.  Au  reste,  I  am  not  sure  that 
Madame  Boland — admirable  creature  ! — had  genius ; 
but  for  talent,  and  caractere — ^first  rate. 


220 


NOTES   FROM  BOOKS. 


68. 

*^  Soyons  doux  si  non  voulons  6tre  regett^s.  La 
hauteur  du  genie  et  les  qualit^s  sup^rieures  ne  sont 
pleur6es  que  des  auges." 

*'  Yeillons  bien  sur  notre  caractere.  Songeons  que 
nous  pouvons  aveo  un  attacliement  profond  n'en  pas 
moins  empoisonner  des  jours  que  nous  racheterions 
au  prixde  tout  notre  sang.  Quaud  nos  amis  sont  des- 
cendus  dans  la  tombe,  quels  mojens  ayons  nous  de 
r^parer  nos  torts?  nos  inutiles  regrets,  nos  vains 
repentirs,  sont  ils  un  remede  aux  peines  que  nous 
leurs  avons  faites  ?  lis  auraient  mieux  aim6  de  nous 
un  sourire  pendant  leur  vie  que  toutes  nos  larmes 
apr^s  leur  mort." 

69. 

'*  L'amour  est  si  bien  la  felicite  qu'il  est  poursuivi 
de  la  chimere  d'etre  toujours ;  il  ne  veut  prononcer 
que  des  serments  irre vocables ;  au  d^faut  de  ses  joies, 
il  cherche  k  4terniser  ses  douleurs;  ange  tomb6  il 
parle  encore  le  langage  qu'il  parlait  au  sejour  incor- 
ruptible;  son  esperance  est  ne  ne  cesser  jamais. 
Dans  sa  double  nature  et  dans  sa  double  illusion,  ici- 
bas  il  pr6tend  se  perp6tuer  par  d'immortelles  pens6es 
et  par  des  generations  intarissables." 


10. 
Madame  d'Houdetot,  after  the  death  of  Saint 
Lambert,  always  before  she  went  to  bed  used  to 


BISHOP   CUMBERLAND. 


221 


ttt^s.     La 
)s  ne  sont 


rap  three  times  with  her  slipper  on  the  floor  saying,-^ 
''  Bon  soir,  mon  ami  I  bon  soir,  bon  soir  !  " 

So  then,  she  thought  of  her  lover  as  gone  down — 
not  up  f 


geons  que 
[  n'en  pas 
chcterioDs 
3  sont  deS' 
i  nous  de 
nos  vains 
que  nous 
i6  de  nous 
OS  larmes 


poursuivi 

prononcer 

ses  joies, 

tomb^  il 

)ur  incor- 

jamais. 

ision,  ici- 

s  pens^es 


BISHOP  OUMBEBLAND. 


BISHOP  OF  PBTSBBOBOireH  IN  1691. 


of  Saint 
used  to 


11 

'  Bishop  Cumberland  founds  the  law  of  God,  as 
revealed  in  the  Scriptures,  upon  the  general  law  of 
nature.  He  does  not  attempt  to  found  the  laws  of 
nature  upon  the  Bible.  "  We  believe,**  he  says,  "  in 
the  truth  of  Scripture,  because  it  promotes  and  illus- 
trates the  fundamental  laws  of  nature  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  world." 

Then  does  the  Bishop  mean  here  that  the  Bible 
is  not  the  word  nor  the  will  of  God,  but  the  exposi- 
tion of  the  WORD  and  the  record  of  the  will,  so  far 
as  either  could  be  rendered  communicable  to  human 
comprehension  through  the  medium  of  human  lan- 
guage and  intelligence  ? 

There  is  a  striking  passage  in  Bunscn's  Hipoljtus 
which  may  be  considered  with  reference  to  this  opin- 
ion of  the  Bishop. 

He  (BuDsen)  says,  that  *'  what  relates  the  history 
of  '  the  word  of  God '  in  his  humanity,  and  in  this 
world,  and  what  records  its  teachings,  and  warnings, 


222 


NOTES   TROM   BOOKS. 


w 


1 1 


and  promises  (that  is,  the  Bible  ?)  was  mistaken  for 
*  the  word  of  God '  itself,  in  its  proper  sense." 

Does  he  mean  that  we  deem  erroneously  the  col- 
lection of  writings  we  call  the  Bible  to  be  "  the  word 
of  God ; "  whereas,  in  fact,  it  is  "  the  history,  the 
record  of  the  word  of  God  ?  "  that  is,  of  all  that  God 
has  spoken  to  man — in  various  revelations — through 
human  life — by  human  deeds?" — ^because  this  is 
surely  a  most  important  and  momentous  distinction. 


■  i 


According  to  Bishop  Cumberland,  benevolence^  in 
its  large  sense, — that  is,  a  regard  for  all  good,  uni- 
versal and  particular, — is  the  primary  law  of  nature ; 
and  justice  is  one  form,  and  a  secondary  form,  of  this 
law:  a  moral  virtue,  not  a  law  of  nature, — if  I  ul- 
derstand  his  meaning  rightly.        , 

Then  which  would  he  place  highest,  the  law  of 
nature  or  the  moral  law  ? 

If  you  place  them  in  contradistinction,  then  are 
we  to  conclude  that  the  law  of  nature  precedes  the 
moral  law,  but  that  the  moral  law  supersedes  the  law 
of  nature  ?  Yet  no  law  of  nature  (as  I  understand 
the  word)  can  be  superseded,  though  the  moral  law 
may  be  based  upon  it,  and  in  that  sense  may  be 
above  it. 


j!»:i 


taken  for 


)i 


T  the  col- 
the  word 
torj,  the 
that  God 
-through 
this  in 
inction. 


flence^  in 
)OD,  uni- 
nature ; 
I,  of  this 
if  I  ut- 

law  of 

)hcn  are 
•ides  the 
the  law 
erstand 
ral  law 
nay  be 


«>'  *•{■■ 


BISHOP   CUMBERLAND. 


19. 


228 

■Trr 


In  this  following  passage  the  Bishop  seems  to 
have  anticipated  what  in  more  modern  times  has  been 
called  the  ^^ greatest  happiness  principle"  Ho 
says:— 

,^  "  The  good  of  all  rational  beings  is  a  complex 
whole,  being  nothing  but  the  aggregate  of  good  en- 
joyed by  each."  "We  can  only  act  in  our  proper 
spheres,  labouring  to  do  good,  but  this  labour  will 
be  fruitless,  or  rather  mischievous,  if  we  do  not  keep 
in  mind  the  higher  gradations  which  terminate  in 
universal  benevolence.  Thus,  no  man  must  seek  his 
own  pleasure  or  advantage  otherwise  than  as  his 
family  permits ;  or  provide  for  his  family  to  the 
detriment  of  his  country ;  or  promote  the  good  of  his 
country  at  the  expense  of  mankind ;  or  serve  man- 
kind, if  it  were  possible,  without  regard  to  the 
majesty  of  God." 

T4. 

Paley  deems  the  recognition  of  a  future  state  so 
essential  that  he  even  makes  the  definition  of  virtue 
to  consist  in  this,  that  it  is  good  performed  for  the 
sake  of  everlasting  happiness.  That  is  to  say,  he 
makes  it  a  sort  of  bargain  between  God  and  man,  a 
contract,  or  a  covenant,  instead  of  that  obedience  to 
a  primal  law,  from  which  if  we  stray  in  will,  We  do 
80  at  the  necessary  expense  of  our  happiness.     Bishop 


224 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


Cumberland  has  no  reference  to  this  doctrine  of 
Paley's ; — seems,  indeed,  to  set  it  aside  altogether, 
as  contrary  to  the  essence  of  virtue. 

On  the  whole,  this  good  Bishop  appears  to  have 
treated  ethics  not  as  an  ecclesiastic,  but  as  Bacon 
treated  natural  philosophy; — the  pervading  spirit 
is  the  perpetual  appeal  to  experience,  and  not  to 
authority.  ,  .  ' 


OOMTE'8  PHILOSOPHY. 

i8Ba 

76.      ■-■ 


i 


CoMTE  makes  out  three  elements  of  progress, 
"  les  philosophes,  les  prol^taires,  et  les  femmes ;" — 
types  of  intellect,  material  activity,  and  sentiment.    ' 

From  Woman,  he  says,  is  to  proceed  the  pre- 
ponderance of  the  social  duties  and  affections  over 
egotism  and  ambition.  (La  preponderance  de  la 
sociability  sur  la  personality.)  He  adds : — "  Ce  sexe 
est  certainement  sup^rieure  au  notre  quant  k  I'attri- 
but  le  plus  fondamentale  de  I'esp^ce  humaine,  la 
tendence  de  faire  prevaloir  la  sociabilite  sur  la  per- 
sonalite. 


,h- 


76. 


^'  f 


'     "  S'il  ne  fallait  qu'aimer  comme  dans  I'Utopie 
Ghr^tienne,  sur  une  vie  future  afifranchie  de  toute 


C0MTB8    PHILOSOPIIT. 


225 


trine  of 
nogethor, 

to  have 
s  Bacon 
ig  spirit 
.  not  to 


.    .1 


)rogress, 
mes ;" — 
ment. 
the  pre- 
)ns  over 
de  la 
Ce  sexe 
i  I'attri- 
ame,  la 
la  per- 


'Utopie 
e  toute 


^golste  necessity  mat^rielle,  la  femme  r^gnerait ;  mais 
il  faut  surtout  agir  et  pniser  pour  combattre  contre 
lea  rigueurs  de  notre  vra  e  destindo :  d^s-lors  I'homme 
doit  commander  malgro  sa  moindre  moralite." 

"  Malgre  ?  "  Sometimes  man  commands  because 
of  the  '<  moindre  moralite : " — it  spares  much  time 
in  scruples. 

77. 

'^  L'influence  feminine  devient  Pauxiliaire  indis* 
pensable  de  tout  pouvoir  spirituel,  comme  le  moyen- 
Age  I'a  tant  montr6." 

"  Au  moyen  &ge  la  Catholicism  occidentale 
^baucha  la  systematisation  de  la  puissance  morale  en 
superposant  k  I'ordre  pratique  une  libre  autorite 
spirituelle,  habituelleraent  second^e  par  les  femmes." 


78. 


vv:^^ 


•tl»i;>,t 


"  La  Force,  proprement  dite,  c'est  ce  qui  regit  les 
aotes,  sans  regler  les  volontes. 

Herein  lies   a  distinction   between   Force  and 
Power ;  for  Power,  properly  so  called,  does  both. 


.Al  . :-  :.»     A^,\     .<■■;'!, 


79. 


He  insists  throughout  on  the  predominance  of 

sociabilite  over  personalite — and  what  is  that  but  the 

Christian  law  philosophised  ?  and  again,  "  II  n'y  a  de 

directement  morale  dans  notre  nature  que  I'amour." 

.    10* 


hi: 


f'ji 


'.  >.,.!Sf 


226 


NOTES    FROM    BOOKS. 


Where  did  he  get  this,  if  not  in  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John? 

"  Celui  qui  se  oroirait  independant  des  autres 
dans  ses  affections,  ses  pensees,  ou  ses  actes,  ne  pour- 
rait  m6me  formuler  un  tel  blaspheme  sans  une  con- 
tradiction immediate — puisque  son  langage  m^me  ne 
lui  appartient  pas."  ^ 

80. 

He  says  that  if  the  women  regret  the  age  of 
chivalry,  it  is  not  for  the  external  homage  then  paid 
to  them,  but  because  "  I'element  le  plus  moral  de 
I'humanite  "  (woman,  to  wit)  "  doit  preferer  a  tout 
autre  le  seul  regime  qui  erigea  directement  en  prin- 
cipe  la  preponderance  de  la  morale  sur  la  politique. 
Si  elles  regrettent  leur  douce  influence  ant^rieure, 
c'est  surtout  comme  s'effaqant  aujourd'hui  sous  un 
grossier  egoisme. 

"  Leurs  voeux  spontanes  seconderont  toujours  les 
efforts  directes  des  philosophes  et  des  prol6taires 
pour  transformer  enfin  les  debats  politiques  en  trans- 
actions sociales  en  faisant  prevaloir  les  devoirs  sur 
les  droits." 

This  is  admirable;  for  we  are  all  inclined  to 
think  more  about  our  rights  (and  our  wrongs  too) 
than  about  our  duties. 

\  ■ 


comte's  philosophy. 


227 


I  of  St. 

s  autres 
ne  pour- 
une  con- 
m^me  ne 


*'*-       1:') 


m* 


)  age  of 
hen  paid 
noral  de 
r  a  tout 

en  prin- 
)olitique. 
t^rieure, 

sous  un 

jours  les 
ol^taires 
en  trans- 
mrs  sur 

lined  to 
ngs  too) 


"  Si  done  aimer  nous  satisfait  mieux  que  d'etre 
aime,  cela  constate  la  superiority  naturelle  des  affec- 
tions desint6ress4es." 

Meaning — what  is  true — that  the  love  we  hear  to 
another,  much  more  fills  the  whole  soul  and  is  more 
a  possession,  more  of  an  actuating  principle,  than  the 
love  of  anothe;  for  us : — ^but  both  are  necessary  to 
the  complement  of  our  moral  life.  The  first  is  as  the 
air  we  breathe ;  the  last  is  as  our  daily  bread. 

82. 

He  says  that  the  only  true  and  firm  friendship  is 
that  between  man  and  woman,  because  it  is  the  only 
affection  "  exempte  de  toute  concurrence  actuelle  ou 
possible." 

In  this  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  him,  and  to 
regret  that  our  conventional  morality  or  immorality, 
and  the  too  early  severance  of  the  two  sexes  in  edu- 
cation, place  men  and  women  in  such  a  relation  to 
each  other,  socially,  as  to  render  such  friendships 
diflBcult  and  rare. 

88. 

"  En  verite  I'amour  ne  saurait  etrc  profond,  s'il 
n'est  past  pur." 

Christiani.'-y,  he  says,  "  a  favorise  I'essor  de  la 


228 


NOTES   FROM  BOOKS. 


i 


Veritable  passion,  tandisque  le  polyth^isme  consacrait 
surtout  les  appetits."  j«i. 

He  is  speaking  here  as  teacher,  philosopher,  and 
legislator,  not  as  poet  or  sentimentalist.  Perhaps  it 
will  come  to  be  recognised,  sooner  or  latter,  that 
what  people  are  pleased  to  call  the  romance  of  life  is 
founded  on  the  deepest  and  most  immutable  laws  of 
our  being,  and  that  any  system  of  ecclesiastical  polity, 
or  civil  legislation,  or  moral  philosophy,  which  takes 
no  account  of  the  primal  instincts  and  affections, 
which  are  the  springs  of  life  and  on  which  God  made 
the  continuation  of  his  world  to  depend,  must  of 
necessity  fail.  * 

I  have  just  read  a  volume  of  Psychological  Essays 
by  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  living  surgeons,  and 
closed  the  book  with  a  feeling  of  amazement :  a  long 
life  spent  in  physiological  experiences,  dissecting 
dead  bodies,  and  mending  broken  bones,  has  then  led 
him,  at  last,  to  some  of  the  most  obvious,  most  com- 
monly known  facts  in  mental  philosophy  %  So  some 
of  our  profound  politicians,  after  a  long  life  spent  in 
governing  and  reforming  men,  may  arrive,  aA  last,  at 
some  of  the  commonest  facts  in  social  morals. 


84. 


He  contends  for  the  indissolubility  of  marriage, 
and  against  divorce;  and  he  thinks  that  education 
should  be  in  the  hands  of  women  to  the  age  of  ten  or 


COMTBS   PHILOSOPHY. 


229 


onsacrait 

)her,  and 
erhaps  it 
iter,  that 
of  life  is 
e  laws  of 
al  polity, 
Lch  takes 
iffectioDS, 
rod  made 
must  of 

3.1  Essays 

eons,  and 

a  long 

issecting 

then  led 

lost  com- 

So  some 

spent  in 

last^  at 


carriage, 
ducation 
)f  ten  or 


twelve,  "Afin  que  le  coeur  y  pr^vale  toujours  sur 
I'esprit :  "  all  very  excellent  principles,  but  supposing  a 
hypothetical  social  and  moral  state,  from  which  we  are 
as  yet  far  removed.  What  he  says,  however,  of  the  in- 
dissolubility of  the  marriage  bond  is  so  beautiful  and 
eloquent,  and  so  in  accordance  with  my  own  moral 
theories,  that  I  cannot  help  extracting  it  from  a  mass 
of  heavy  and  sometimes  unintelligible  matter.  He 
begins  by  laying  it  down  as  a  principle  that  the 
"  amelioration  morale  de  I'homme  constitue  le  prin- 
cipale  mission  de  la  femme,"  and  that  ''  une  telle 
destination  indique  aussit6t  que  le  lien  conjugal  doit 
^tre  unique  et  indissoluble,  afin  que  les  relations 
domestiques  puissent  acquerir  la  plenitude  et  la  fixity 
qu'exige  leur  ejficacite  morale."  This,  however, 
supposes  the  holiest  and  completest  of  all  bonds  to 
be  sealed  on  terms  of  equall  y,  not  that  the  latter 
end  of  a  man's  life,  /«  vie  usee  et  lajeunesse  epuisee^ 
are  to  be  tacked  on  to  the  beginning  of  a  woman's 
fresh  and  innocent  existence ;  for  then  influences  are 
reversed,  and  instead  of  the  amelioration  of  the  mas- 
culine, we  have  the  demoralisation  of  the  feminine, 
nature.  He  supposes  the  possibility  of  circumstances 
which  demand  a  personal  separation,  but  even  then 
sans  permettre  un  nouveau  marriage.  In  such  a 
case  his  religion  imposes  on  the  innocent  victim 
(whether  man  or  woman)  "  une  chastet6  compatible 
d'ailleurs  avec  la  plus  profonde  tendresse.  Si  cette 
condition  lui  semble  rigoureuse,  il  doit  Faccepter, 


230 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


d'abord,  en  vue  de  I'ordre  general ;  puis,  comme  une 
juste  consequence  de  son  erreur  primitive." 

There  would  be  much  to  say  upon  all  this,  if  it 
were  worth  while  to  discuss  a  theory  which  it  is  not 
possible  to  reduce  to  general  practice.  We  cannot 
imagine  the  possibility  of  a  second  marriage  where 
the  first,  though  perhaps  unhappy  or  early  ruptured, 
has  been,  not  a  personal  relation  only,  but  an  inter- 
fusion of  our  moral  being, — of  the  deepest  impulses 
of  life — with  those  of  another ;  these  we  cannot  have 
a  second  time  to  surrender  to  a  second  object ; — but 
this  might  be  left  to  Nature  and  her  holy  instincts  to 
settle.  However,  he  goes  on  in  a  strain  of  eloquence 
and  dignity,  quite  unusual  with  him,  to  this  effect : — 
"  Ce  n'est  que  par  I'assurance  d'une  inalterable  per- 
petuity que  Ics  liens  intimes  peuvent  acqu^rir  la 
consistance  et  la  plenitude  indispensable  d  leur  effioa- 
cit^  morale.  La  plus  m6prisable  des  sectes  ephemeres 
que  suscita  Panarchie  moderne  (the  Mormons,  for  in- 
stance ?)  me  parait  etre  celle  qui  voulut  6riger  I'incon- 
stance  en  condition  debonheur."  ....  "  Entre  deux 
6tres  aussi  complexes  et  aussi  divers  que  I'homme  et 
la  femme,  ce  n'est  pas  trop  de  toute  la  vie  pour  se 
bien  connaitre  et  s'aimer  dignement.  Loin  de  taxer 
d'illusion  la  haute  idee  que  deux  vrais  epoux  se 
ferment  souvent  I'un  de  I'autre,  je  I'ai  presque 
toujours  attribuee  a  I'appreciation  plus  profonde  que 
procure  seule  une  pleine  intimite,  qui  d'ailleurs  de- 
veloppe  des  qualit^s  inconnues  aux  indifferents.     On 


COMTB'S   PHILOSOPHY. 


231 


)mme  une 

this,  if  it 
h.  it  is  not 
7e  cannot 
age  where 
ruptured, 
an  inter- 
r  impulses 
nnot  have 
ect ; — bwt 
istincts  to 
eloquence 
I  eflfect : — 
rable  per- 
iquerir  la 
eur  effioa- 
sphemeres 
ns,  for  iu- 
)r  I'incon- 
ntre  deux 
homme  et 
e  pour  se 
1  de  tazer 
epoux  se 
L  presque 
fonde  que 
Ueurs  de- 
nts.    On 


doit  m^me  regarder  comme  tr6s-honorable  pour 
notre  esp^ce,  cette  grande  estime  que  se  membres 
s'inspirent  mutuellement  quand  ils  s'6tudient  beau- 
coup.  Car  la  haine  et  Vindifference  meriteraient 
seulcs  le  reproche  d' aveuglement  qu'une  appreciation 
supeifidelle  applique  a  V amour.  II  faut  done  juger 
pleinement  conforme  a  la  nature  huraaine  I'institution 
qiii  prolonge  au  dela  du  tombeau  I'indentification  de 
deux  dignes  6poux." 

He  lays  down  as  one  of  the  primal  instincts  of 
human  kind  "  Vhomme  doit  nourir  la  femmey  This 
may  have  been,  as  he  says,  a  universal  instinct; 
perhaps  it  ought  to  be  one  of  our  social  ordinations ; 
perhaps  it  may  be  so  at  some  future  time ;  but  we 
know  that  it  is  not  a  present  fact ;  that  the  woman 
must  in  many  cases  maintain  herself  or  perish,  and 
she  asks  nothing  more  than  to  be  allowed  to  do  so. 

However,  I  agree  with  Comte  that  the  position 
of  a  woman,  enriched  and  independent  by  her  own 
labour,  is  anomalous  and  seldom  happy.  It  is  a 
remark  I  have  heard  somewhere,  and  it  appears  to 
me  true,  that  there  exists  no  being  so  hard,  so  keen, 
so  calculating,  so  unscrupulous,  so  merdless  in  money 
matters  as  the  wife  of  a  Parisian  shopkeeper,  where 
she  holds  the  purse  and  manages  the  concern,  as  is 
generally  the  case. 


232 


,1! 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


85. 


Here  is  a  passage  wherein  he  attacks  that  egotism 
which  with  many  good  people  enters  so  largely  into 
the  notion  of  another  world ; — which  Paley  incul- 
cated, and  which  Coleridge  ridiculed,  when  he  spoke 
of  "  this  worldliness,"  and  the  "  other  worldliness." 

"La  sagesse sacerdotale, digne organe de I'instinct 
public^  y  ay  ait  intimement  rattache  les  principales 
obligations  sociales  a  titre  de  condition  indispensable 
du  salut  personnel :  mais  la  recompense  infinie  pro- 
mise ainsi  k  tons  les  sacrifices  ne  pouvait  jamais 
permettre  une  afiection  pleinement  desinteressle. " 

This  perpetual  iteration  of  a  system  of  future 
reward  and  punishment,  as  a  principle  of  our  religion 
and  a  motive  of  action,  has  in  some  sort  demoralised 
Christianity ;  especially  in  minds  where  love  is  not  a 
chief  element,  and  which  do  not  love  Christ  for  his 
love's  sake,  but  for  his  power's  sake ;  because  judg- 
ment and  punishment  are  supposed  to  be  in  his  hand. 

86. 

Putting  the  test  of  revelation  out  of  the  question, 
and  dealing  with  the  philosopher  philosophically,  the 
best  refutation  of  Comte's  system  is  contained  in  the 
following  criticism :  it  seems  to  me  final. 

"  In  limiting  religion  to  the  relations  in  which  we 
stand  to  each  other,  an  "^  towards  Humanity^  Comte 
omits  one  very  important  consideration.     Even  upon 


comte's  philosophy. 


233 


Ett  egotism 
irgely  into 
Jey  incul- 
1  he  spoke 
dliness." 
e  rinstinct 
principales 
ispensable 
LDfinie  pro- 
a.it  jamais 
•ess6e. " 
of  future 
IT  religion 
^moralised 
re  is  not  a 
ist  for  his 
,use  judg- 
his  hand. 


question, 
cally,  the 
led  in  the 

which  we 
y,  Comte 
Iven  upon 


i 


his  own  showing,  this  Humanity  can  only  be  the 
supreme  being  of  our  planet,  it  cannot  be  the  Supreme 
Being  of  the  Universe.  Now,  although  in  this  our 
terrestrial  sojourn,  all  we  can  distinctly  know  must 
be  limited  to  the  sphere  of  our  planet ;  yet,  stand- 
ing on  this  ball  and  looking  forth  into  infinitude,  we 
know  that  it  is  but  an  atom  of  the  infinitude,  and 
that  the  humanity  we  worship  here^  cannot  extend 
its  dominion  there.  If  our  relations  to  humanity 
may  be  systematized  into  a  oultus,  and  made  a  reli- 
gion as  they  have  formerly  been  made  a  morality, 
and  if  the  whole  of  our  practical  priesthood  be  limited 
to  this  religion,  there  will,  nevertheless,  remain  for 
us,  outlying  this  terrestrial  sphere, — the  sphere  of 
the  infinite,  in  which  oiir  thoughts  must  wander,  and 
our  emotions  will  follow  our  thoughts ;  so  that  be- 
sides the  religion  of  humanity  there  must  ever  be 
a  religion  of  the  Universe.  Or,  to  bring  this 
conception  within  ordinary  language,  there  must  ever 
remain  the  old  distinctions  between  religion  and 
morality^  our  relations  to  God,  and  our  relations 
towards  man.  The  only  difi'erence  being,  that  in  the 
old  theology  moral  precepts  were  inculcated  with  a 
view  to  a  celestial  habitat ;  in  the  new^  the  moral 
precepts  are  inculcated  with  a  view  to  the  general 
progress  of  the  race." — Westminster  Review. 

In  fact  the  doctrine  of  the  non-plurality  of  worlds 
as  recently  set  forth  by  an  eminent  professor  and 
D.D.  would  exactly  harmonise  with  Comtc's  '•  Culte 


234 


NOTES   FROM  BOOKS. 


du  Positif,"  as  not  merely  limiting  our  sympathies 
to  this  one  form  of  intellectual  being,  but  our  re- 
ligious notions  to  this  one  habitable  orb. 

But  to  those  who  take  other  views,  the  argument 
above  contains  the  philosophical  objection  to  Comte's 
system,  as  such ;  and  I  repeat,  that  it  seems  to  mc 
unanswerable ;  but  there  are  excellent  things  in  his 
theory,  notwithstanding ; — things  that  make  us  pause 
and  think.  In  some  parts  it  is  like  Christianity  with 
Christ,  as  a  personaliU^  omitted.  For  Christ  the 
humanised  divine,  he  substitutes  an  abstract  deified 
humanity.     1854.     ^•.    '       -  ^  ••  AH 

■ii,         .   -i:'r.vm-r^^^ry'-    GOETHE.    ^'\. ■,?„',.!  ..-j:.^, 

"  '         '  (DIOHTtmO  UND  WAHEHEIT.)      •'•%-, 

*'  As  a  man  embraces  ihe  determination  to  become 
a  soldier  and  go  to  the  wars,  bravely  resolved  to  bear 
dangers,  and  difficulties,  and  wounds,  and  death 
itself,  but  at  the  same  time  never  anticipating  the 
particular  form  in  which  those  evils  may  surprise  us 
in  an  extremely  unpleasant  manner; — ^just  so  we 
rush  into  authorship ! " 


'•J.  1^**':  ■?''Vi^'^ 


S'.    # 


■'.-.?  ■ 


".,-    y 


Goethe  says  of  Lavater,  "  that  the  conception  of 
humanity  which  had  been  formed  in  himself,  and  in 


GOETHE'S. 


235 


jrmpathies 
it  our  re- 
argument 
0  Comte's 
3ms  to  mc 
Dgs  in  his 
}  us  pause 
unity  with 
Christ  the 
ict  deified 

4 


his  own  humanity,  was  so  akin  to  the  living  image  of 
Christ,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  conceive 
how  a  man  could  live  and  breathe  without  being  a 
Christian.  He  had,  so  to  speak,  a  physical  affinity 
with  Christianity ;  it  was  to  him  a  necessity,  not 
only  morally,  but  from  organisation." 

Lavaters  individual  feeling  was,  perhaps,  but  an 
anticipation  of  that  which  may  become  general,  uni- 
versal. As  we  rise  in  the  scale  of  being,  as  we  be- 
come more  gentle,  spiritualised,  refined,  and  intelli- 
gent, will  not  our  "  physical  affinity  "  with  the  religion 
of  Christ  become  more  and  more  apparent,  till  it  is 
lcs9  a  doctrine  than  a  principle  of  life  ?  So  its 
Divine  Author  knew,  who  prepared  it  for  us,  and  is 
preparing  and  moulding  us  through  progressive  im- 
provement to  comprehend  and  receive  it. 


to  become 
3d  to  bear 
nd  death 
)ating  the 
iirprise  us 
st  so  we 

:  :-»^^^.:■ 

)eption  of 
If,  and  in 


...  .  89. 

Goethe  speaks  of  ''polishing  up  life  with  the 
varnish  of  fiction ; "  the  artistic  turn  of  the  man's 
mind  showed  itself  in  this  love  of  creating  an  e£fect 
in  his  own  eyes  and  in  the  eyes  of  others.  But  what 
can  fiction — ^what  can  poetry  do  for  life,  but  present 
some  one  or  two  out  of  the  multitudinous  aspects  of 
that  grand,  beautiful,  terrible,  and  infinite  mystery? 
or  by  life,  does  he  mean  here  the  mere  external  forms 
of  society  ? — for  it  is  not  clear. 


■^1 


■'*^l 


236 


NOTES   FROM  BOOKS. 


f  i 


HAZLITT'S  "LIBER  AMORIS.* 


H(a 


1827. 


:  I 


•        ■  •  90.       »■ 

•4: 

Is  love,  like  faith,  ennobled  through  its  own  depth 
and  fervour  and  sincerity  ?  or  is  it  ennobled  through 
the  nobility,  and  degraded  through  the  degradation 
of  its  object  ?  Is  it  with  love  as  with  worship  ?  Is 
it  a  religion^  and  holy  when  the  object  is  pure  and 
good  ?  Is  it  a  stiperstitiorij  and  unholy  when  the 
object  is  impure  and  unworthy  ? 

Of  all  the  histories  I  have  read  of  the  aberrations 
of  human  passion,  nothing  ever  so  struck  me  with  a 
sort  of  amazed  and  painful  pity  as  Hazlitt's  "  Liber 
Amoris."  The  man  was  in  love  with  a  servant  girl, 
who  in  the  eyes  of  others  possessed  no  particular 
charms  of  mind  or  person,  yet  did  the  mighty  love  of 
this  strong,  masculine,  and  gifted  being,  lift  her  into 
a  sort  of  goddess-ship  ;  and  make  his  idolatry  in  its 
intense  earnestness  and  reality  assume  something  of 
the  sublimity  of  an  act  of  faith,  and  in  its  expression 
take  a  flight  equal  to  anything  that  poetry  or  fiction 
have  left  us.  It  ^as  all  so  terribly  real,  he  sued  with 
such  a  vehemence,  he  suffered  with  such  resistance, 
that  the  powerful  intellect  reeled,  tempest-tost,  and 
might  have  foundered  but  for  the  gift  of  expression. 
He  might  have  said  like  Tasso — ^like  Goethe  rather 


)  own  depth 
ed  through 
legradation 
rship  ?  Is 
s  pure  and 
'  when  the 

aberrations 

me  with  a 
tt's  "  Liber 
ervant  girl, 

particular 
bty  love  of 
ft  her  into 

atry  in  its 
nething  of 

expression 
7  or  fiction 
e  sued  with 

resistance, 
3t-tost,  and 
expression. 

the  rather 


HAZLITt'fl   LIBER   AM0RI8. 


237 


— "Gab  mir  ein  Oott  zu  sagen  was  ich  leide!" 
And  this  faculty  of  utterance,  eloquent  utterance, 
was  perhaps  the  only  thing  which  saved  life,  or  reason, 
or  both.  In  such  moods  of  passion,  the  poor  unedu- 
cated man,  dumb  in  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  the 
storm,  unable  to  comprehend  his  intolerable  pain  or 
make  it  comprehended,  throws  himself  in  a  blind 
fury  on  the  cause  of  his  torture,  or  hangs  himself  in 
his  neckcloth. 


,i4,.v-  ,,»         m/    ^'.'..:, 


91. 


Hazlitt  takes  up  his  pen,  dips  it  in  fire  and  thus 
ho  writes : — 

"  Perfect  love  has  this  advantage  in  it,  that  it 
leaves  the  possessor  of  it  nothing  farther  to  desire. 
There  is  one  object  (at  least),  in  which  the  soul  finds 
absolute  content ; — for  which  it  seeks  to  live  or  dares 
to  die.  The  heart  has,  as  it  were,  filled  up  the  moulds 
of  the  imagination ;  the  truth  of  passion  keeps  pace 
with  and  outvies  the  extravagance  of  mere  language. 
There  are  no  words  so  fine,  no  fiattery  so  soft,  that 
there  is  not  a  sentiment  beyond  them  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  express,  at  the  bottom  of  the  heart  where 
true  love  is.  What  idle  sounds  the  common  phrases 
adorable  creature^  divinity,  angel,  are  I  What  a 
proud  reflection  it  is  to  have  a  feeling  answering  to  all 
these,  rooted  in  the  breast,  unalterable,  unutterable, 
to  which  all  other  feelings  are  light  and  vain !  Per- 
fect love  reposes  on  the  object  of  its  choice,  like  the 


2S8 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


halcyon  on  the  waye,  and  the  air  of  heaven  is  around 

it  1 " 

92. 

"  She  stood  (while  I  pleaded  my  cause  before  her 
with  all  the  earnestness  and  fondness  in  the  world) 
with  the  tears  trickling  from  her  eye-lashes,  her  head 
drooping,  her  attitude  fixed,  with  the  finest  expres- 
sion that  ever  was  seen  of  mixed  regret,  pity,  and 
stubborn  resolution,  but  without  speaking  a  word — 
without  altering  a  feature.  It  was  like  a  petrifaction 
of  a  human  face  in  the  softest  moment  of  passion.^"* 


.  "  Shall  I  not  love  her,"  he  exclaims,  "  for  herself 
alone,  in  spite  of  fickleness  and  folly  ?  to  love  her  for 
her  regard  for  me,  is  not  to  love  her  but  myself. 
She  has  robbed  me  of  herself,  shall  she  also  rob  me 
of  my  love  of  her  ?  did  I  not  live  on  her  smile  ?  is  it 
less  sweet  because  it  is  withdrawn  from  me  ?  Did  I 
not  adore  her  every  grace  ?  and  does  she  bend  less 
enchantingly  because  she  has  turned  from  me  to 
another  ?  Is  my  love  then  in  the  power  of  fortune 
or  of  her  caprice  ?  No,  I  will  have  it  lasting  as  it  is 
pure ;  and  I  will  make  a  goddess  of  her,  and  build  a 
temple  to  her  in  my  heart,  and  worship  her  on  inde- 
structible altars,  and  raise  statues  to  her,  and  my 
homage  shall  be  unblemished  as  her  unrivalled  sym- 
metry of  form.     And  when  that  fails,  the  memory  of 


THE    NIOHTINOALi:. 


230 


is  around 


before  her 
;he  world) 
I,  her  head 
!st  expres- 
pity,  and 
a  word — 
etrifaction 
passion.'''' 


for  herself 

►ve  her  for 

ut  myself. 

so  rob  me 

mile  ?  is  it 

9    Did  I 

bend  less 

sm   me  to 

of  fortune 

ing  as  it  is 

nd  build  a 

on  inde- 

,  and  my 

lied  sym- 

aemory  of 


it  shall  survive,  and  my  bosom  shall  be  proof  to  scorn 
as  hers  has  been  to  pity ;  and  I  will  pursue  her  with 
an  unrelenting  love,  and  sue  to  be  her  slave  and  tend 
her  steps  without  notice,  and  without  reward ;  and 
serve  her  living,  and  mourn  for  her  when  dead ;  and 
thus  my  love  will  have  shown  itself  superior  to  her 
hate,  and  I  shall  triumph  and  then  die.  This  is  my 
idea  of  the  only  true  and  heroic  love,  and  such  is 
mine  for  her." 

Hazlitt,  when  he  wrote  all  this,  seemed  to  himself 
full  of  high  and  calm  resolve.  The  hand  did  not 
fail,  the  pen  did  not  stagger  over  the  paper  in  a 
formless  scrawl,  yet  the  brain  was  reeling  like  a 
tower  in  an  earthquake.  "  Passion,"  as  it  has  been 
well  said,  ''when  in  a  state  of  solemn  and  omni- 
potent vehemence,  always  appears  to  be  calmness  to 
him  whom  it  domineers ; "  not  unfrequently  to  others 
also,  as  the  tide  at  its  highest  flood  looks  tranquil, 
and  "  neither  way  inclines." 


"''     '  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Reading  the  Life  and  Letters  of  Francis  Horner, 
in  the  midst  of  a  correspondence  about  Statistics  and 
Bullion,  and  Political  Economy,  and  the  Balance  of 
Parties,  I  came  upon  the  following  exquisite  pas- 
sage in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Mrs.  Spencer : — 


240 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


Kiiil! 


■  J"-'  tlr,  ,  , 


'•    'h 


ft 


■^ 


p. 


i 


"  I  was  amused  by  jour  interrogatory  to  me  about 
the  Nightingale's  note.  You  meant  to  put  me  in  a 
dilemma  with  my  politics  on  one  side  and  my  gal- 
lantry on  the  other.  Of  course  you  consider  it  as  a 
plaintive  note,  and  you  were  in  hopes  that  no  idolater 
of  Charles  Fox  would  venture  to  agree  with  that 
opinion.  In  this  difficulty  I  must  make  the  best 
escape  I  can  by  saying,  that  it  seems  to  me  neither 
cheerful  nor  melancholy, — but  always  according  to 
the  circumstances  in  which  you  hear  it,  the  scenery, 
your  own  temper  of  mind,  and  so  on.  I  settled  it  so 
with  myself  early  in  this  month,  when  I  heard  them 
every  night  and  all  day  long  at  Wells.  In  daylight, 
when  all  the  other  birds  are  in  active  concert,  the 
Nightingale  only  strikes  you  as  the  most  active,  emu- 
lous, and  successful  of  the  whole  band.  At  night, 
especially  if  it  is  a  calm  one,  with  light  enough  to 
give  you  a  wide  indistinct  view,  the  solitary  music  of 
this  bird  takes  quite  another  character,  from  all  the 
associations  of  the  scene,  from  the  langour  one  feels 
at  the  close  of  the  day,  and  from  the  stillness  of  spirits 
and  elevation  of  mind  which  comes  upon  one  when 
walking  out  at  that  time.  But  it  is  not  always  so — 
diflferent  circumstances  will  vary  in  every  possible 
way  the  eflfect.  Will  the  Nightingale's  note  sound 
alike  to  the  man  who  is  going  on  an  adventure  to 
meet  his  mistress  (supposing  he  heeds  it  at  all),  and 
when  he  loiters  along  upon  his  return  ?  The  last 
time  I   heard    the    Nightingale    it  was   an    expe- 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


241 


)  me  about 
t  me  in  a 
d  my  gal- 
ler  it  as  a 

0  idolater 
with  that 
)  the  best 
ae  neither 
c5ording  to 
le  scenery, 
ittled  it  so 
leard  them 

1  daylight, 
oncert,  the 
3tive,  emu- 
At  night, 
enough  to 

music  of 
om  all  the 
one  feels 
s  of  spirits 
one  when 
ways  so — 
y  possible 
ote  sound 
venture  to 
all),  and 
The  last 
an    expe- 


t 


riment  of  another  sort.  It  was  after  a  thunder- 
storm in  a  mild  night,  while  there  was  silent 
lightning  opening  every  few  minutes,  first  on  one 
side  of  the  heavens  then  on  the  other.  The  care- 
less little  fellow  was  piping  away  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  terror.  To  me,  there  was  no  melancholy  in 
his  note,  but  a  sort  of  sublimity ;  yet  it  was  the  same 
song  which  I  had  heard  in  the  morning,  and  which 
then  seemed  nothing  but  bustle.'' 

And  in  the  same  spirit  Portia  moralises : — 

Tbe  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thonj'ht 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season,  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection  I 

Nor  will  Coleridge  allow  the  song  of  the  Nightin- 
gale to  be  always  plaintive, — "most  musical,  most 
melancholy ;''''  he  defies  the  epithet  though  it  be 
Milton's. 

'Tis  the  merry  nightingale, 
That  crowds  and  hurries  and  precipitates 
With  thick  fast  warble  his  deliciou?  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  liim  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chaunt,  and  disburthen  his  fkiU  sool 
Of  all  its  music' 

As  a  poetical  commentary  on  these  beautiful 
passages,  every  reader  of  Joanna  Baillic  will  remem- 
ber the  night  scene  in  De  Montfort,  where  the  cry  of 
the  Owl  suggests  such  different  feelings  and  associa- 
tions to  the  two  men  who  listen  to  it,  under  sucl) 

11 


242 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


\t\-'f 
1'  * 


"jT 


'1       ' 


different  circumstances.  To  De  Montford  it  is  the 
screech-owl,  foreboding  death  and  horror,  and  he 
stands  and  shudders  at  the  "instinctive  wailing." 
To  Rezenvelt  it  is  the  sound  which  recalls  his  boyish 
days,  when  he  merrily  mimicked  the  night  bird  till  it 
returned  him  cry  for  cry, — and  he  pauses  to  listen 
with  a  fanciful  delight. 


THACKEEAY'S  LECTURES  ON  THE  ENGLISH  HUMOURISTS. 


(1868.) 


95. 


W 


A  LECTURE  should  not  read  like  an  essay ;  and, 
therefore,  it  surprises  me  that  these  lectures  so  care- 
fully prepared,  so  skilfully  adapted  to  meet  the 
requirements  of  oral  delivery,  should  bo  such  agree- 
able reading.  As  lectures,  they  wanted  only  a  little 
more  point,  and  emphasis  and  animation  on  the  part 
of  the  speaker :  as  essays,  they  atone  in  eloquence 
and  earnestness  for  what  they  \(ant  in  finish  and 
purity  of  style. 

Genius  and  sunshine  have  this  in  common  that 
they  are  the  two  most  precious  gifts  of  heaven  to 
earth,  and  are  dispensed  equally  to  the  just  and  the 
unjust.  What  struck  me  most  in  these  lectures;  when 
I  heard  them,  (and  it  strikes  me  now  in  turning  over 
the  written  pages,)  is  this :  we  deal  here  with  writers 
and  artists,  yet  the  purpose,  from  beginning  to  end, 


It 


tJ      ^> 


THE   ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS. 


243 


I  it  is  the 
r,  and  he 
)  wailing." 
his  boyish 
bird  till  it 
3S  to  listen 


\» 


lUMOURISTS. 

W 


essay ;  and, 
res  so  care- 
meet  the 
such  agree- 
>nly  a  little 
)n  the  part 
eloquence 
finish  and 

immon  that 
'  heaven  to 
ist  and  the 
ures;  when 
irning  over 
ith  writers 
ng  to  end, 


is  not  artistic  nor  critical,  but  moral.     Thackeray 
tells  us  himself  that  he  has  not  assembled  his  hearers 
to  bring  them  better  acquainted  with  the  writings  of 
these  writers,  or  to  illustrate  the  wit  of  these  wits, 
or  to  enhance  the  humour  of  these  humourists; — 
no ;  but  to  deal  justice  on  the  men  as  men — to  tell 
us  how  they  lived,  and  loved,  suffered  and   made 
suffer,  who  still  have  power  to  pain  or  to  please; 
to  settle  their  claims  to  our  praise  or  blame,  our 
love  or  hate,  whose  right  to  fame  was  settled  long 
ago,  and  remains  undisputed.     This  is  his  purpose. 
Thus  then  he  ^'is  laid  down  and  acted  on  the  prin- 
ciple that  "  D  have  something  to  do  with  art ; " 
that  there  is  a,  moral  account  to  be  settled  with 
men  of  genius ;   that  the  power  and  the  right  re- 
mains with  us  to  do  justice  on  those  who   being 
dead  yet  rule  our  spirits  from  their  urns;  to  try 
them  by  a  standard  which  perhaps   neither   them- 
selves, nor  those  around  them,  would  have  admitted. 
Did  Swift  when  he  bullied  men,  lampooned  women, 
trampled   over   decency  and  humanity,  flung  round 
him  filth  and  fire,  did  he  anticipate  the  time  when 
before  a  company  of  intellectual  men,  and  thinking, 
feeling  women,  in  both  hemispheres,  he  should  be 
called  up  to  judgment,  hands  bound,   tongue-tied? 
Where  be  now  his  gibes  ?  and  where  his  terrors  ? 
Thackeray  turns  him  forth,  a  spectacle,  a  lesson,  a 
warning ;  probes  the  lacerated  self-love,  holds  up  to 
scorn,  or  pity  more  intolerable,  the  miserable  ego- 


244 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


■'ti  ' 


<,f^         I 


\et    *- 


tism,    the    half-distempered    brain.     0  Stella !     0 
Vanessa !  are  you  not  avenged  ? 

Then  Sterne — how  he  takes  to  pieces  his  feigned 
originality,  his  feigned  benevolence,  his  feigned  mis 
anthropy — all  feigned ! — the  licentious  parson,  the 
trader  in  sentiment,  the  fashionable  lion  of  his  day, 
the  man  without  a  heart  for  those  who  loved  him, 
without  a  conscience  for  those  who  trusted  him !  yet 
the  same  man  who  gave  us  the  pathos  of  "  Le  Fevre," 
and  the  humours  of  "  Uncle  Toby !  "    Sad  is  it  ?  un- 
grateful is  it  ?  ungracious  is  it  ? — ^well,  it  cannot  be 
helped ;  you  cannot  stifle  the  conscience  of  humanity. 
You  might  as  well  exclaim  against  any  natural  re- 
sult of  any  natural  law.     Fancy  a  hundred  years 
hence  some  brave,  honest,  human-hearted  Thackeray 
standing  up   to    discourse    before   our  great-great- 
grandchildren in  the  same  spirit,  with    the   same 
stern  truth,   on  the  wits,  and   the  poets,  and  the 
artists  of  the  present  time !     Hard  is  your  fate, 
0  ye   men   and  women   of  genius !  very  hard  and 
pitiful,  if  ye  must  be  subjected  to  the  scalpel  of 
such  a  dissector  !     You,  gifted  sinner,  whoever  you 
may  be,  walking  among  us  now  in  all  the  impunity 
of  conventional  forbearance,  dealing  in  oracles  and 
sentimentalisms,  performing  great  things,  teaching 
good  things,  you  are  set  up  as  one  of  the  lights  of  the 
world  : — Lo !  another  time  comes ;  the  torch  is  taken 
out  of  your  hand,  arid  held  up  to  your  face.     "What ! 
is  it  a  mask,  and  not  a  face  ?  "  Off,  off  ye  lendings ! '' 


f-f 


thackerab's  women. 


245 


Stella!     0 

his  feigned 

eigned  mis 

parson,  the 

of  his  day, 

loved  him, 

d  him  I  yet 

Le  Fevre," 

i  is  it  ?  un- 

)  cannot  be 

f  humanity. 

natural  re* 

dred  years 

Thackeray 

great-great- 

the  same 
3,  and  the 
your  fate, 

hard  and 
scalpel  of 
hoever  you 
e  impunity 
)racles  and 
s,  teaching 
ights  of  the 
'ch  is  taken 
le.  What ! 
lendings  I " 


0  God !  how  much  wiser,  as  well  as  better,  not  to 
study  how  to  seenty  but  how  to  be !  How  much 
wiser  and  better,  not  to  have  to  shudder  before 
the  truth  as  it  oozes  out  from  a  thousand  unguessed, 
unguarded  apertures,  staining  your  lawn  or  your 
ermine ;  not  to  have  to  tremble  at  the  thought  of 
that  future  Thackeray,  who  ''shall  pluck  out  the 
heart  of  your  mystery,"  and  shall  anatomise  you,  and 
deliver  lectures  upon  you,  to  illustrate  the  standard 
of  morals  and  manners  in  Queen  Victoria's  reign  1 

In  these  lectures,  some  fine  and  feeling  and  dis- 
criminative passages  on  character,  make  amends  for 
certain  offences  and  inconsistencies  in  the  novels ;  I 
mean  especially  in  regard  to  the  female  portraits. 
No  woman  resents  his  Bebecca — inimitable  Becky ! — 
no  woman  but  feels  and  acknowledges  with  a  shiver 
the  completeness  of  that  wonderful  and  finished 
artistic  creation ;  but  every  woman  resents  the  selfish 
inane  Amelia,  and  would  be  inclined  to  quote  and  to 
apply  the  author's  own  words  when  speaking  of '  Tom 
Jones: ' — " I  can't  say  that  I  think  Amelia  a  virtu- 
ous character.  I  can't  say  but  I  think  Mr.  Thack- 
eray's evident  liking  and  admiration  for  his  Amelia 
shows  that  the  great  humourist's  moral  sense  was 
blunted  by  his  life,  and  that  here  in  art  and  ethics 
there  is  a  great  error.  If  it  be  right  to  have  a 
heroine  whom  we  are  to  admire,  let  us  take  care  at 
least  that  she  is  admirable." 

Laura,  in  '  Pendennis,'  is  a  yet  more  fatal  mis- 


M 
o 


246 


NOTES   FROM   BOOKS. 


ii 


i       i 


8'-.         I     I 


take.  She  is  drawn  with  every  generous  feeling, 
every  good  gift.  We  do  not  complain  that  she  loves 
that  poor  creature  Pendennis,  for  she  loved  him  in 
her  childhood.  She  grew  up  with  that  love  in  her 
heart ;  it  came  between  her  and  the  perception  of  his 
faults ;  it  is  a  necessity  indivisible  from  her  nature. 
Hallowed,  through  its  constancy,  therein  alone  would 
lie  its  best  excuse,  its  beauty  and  its  truth.  But 
Laura,  faithless  to  that  first  affection ;  Laura,  waked 
up  to  the  appreciation  of  a  far  more  manly  and  noble 
nature,  in  love  with  Warrington,  and  then  going  back 
to  Pendennis,  and  marrying  him!  Such  infirmity 
might  be  true  of  some  women,  but  not  of  such  a 
woman  as  Laura;  we  resent  the  inconsistency,  the 
indelicacy  of  the  portrait.  , 

And  then  Lady  Castlewood, — so  evidently  a 
favourite  of  the  author,  what  shall  we  say  of  her? 
The  virtuous  woman,  par  excellence,  who  "  never  sins 
and  never  forgives,"  who  never  resents,  nor  relents, 
nor  repents;  the  mother,  who  is  the  rival  of  her 
daughter ;  the  mother,  who  for  years  is  the  confidante 
of  a  man^s  delirious  passion  for  her  own  child,  and 
then  consoles  him  by  marrying  him  herself !  0  Mr. 
Thackeray !  this  will  never  do !  such  women  may 
exist,  but  to  hold  them  up  as  examples  of  excellence, 
and  fit  objects  of  our  best  sympathies,  is  a  fault,  and 
proves  a  low  standard  in  ethics  and  in  art.  ''  When 
an  author  presents  to  us  a  heroine  whom  we  are 
called  upon  to  admire,  let  him  at  least  take  care  that 


I 


IIS  feeling, 
,t  she  loves 
ed  him  in 
ove  in  her 
>tion  of  his 
ler  nature, 
lone  would 
ruth.  But 
nra,  waked 
and  noble 
going  back 
L  infirmity 
of  such  a 
jtency,  the 


Thackeray's  women. 

she  is  admirable."  If  in  these,  and  in  some  other 
instances,  Thackeray  has  given  us  cause  of  oflFence,  in 
the  lectures  we  may  thank  him  for  some  amends :  he 
has  shown  us  what  he  conceives  true  womanhood  and 
true  manliness  ought  to  be ;  so  with  this  expression 
of  gratitude,  and  a  far  deeper  debt  Of  gratitude  left 
unexpressed,  I  close  his  book,  and  say,  good  night ! 


.  ( 


^:.:^:Xvi,:f.yri, 


vidently  a 
ly  of  her? 
never  sins 
or  relents, 
^al  of  her 
confidante 
child,  and 
n  0  Mr. 
>men  may 
excellence, 
,  fault,  and 
.  "  AVhen 
►m  we  are 
i  care  that 


WVJ^-:t- •!<•-: 


^*...4i^ 


€■?- 


lUh 


. '.>-;^ji:a;  »;-v-;,iV-... 


^otn  n  ^xU 


-♦-♦-^ 


I! 


I         i 


Sometimes,  in  thoughtful  moments,  I  am  struck  by 
those  beautiful  analogies  between  things  apparently 
dissimilar  —  those  awful  approximations  between 
things  apparently  far  asunder — which  many  people 
would  call  fanciful  and  imaginary,  but  they  seem  to 
bring  all  God's  creation,  spiritual  and  material,  into 
one  comprehensive  whole ;  they  give  me,  thus  asso- 
ciated, a  glimpse,  a  perception  of  that  overwhelming 
unity  which  we  call  the  universe,  the  multitudinous 

ONE. 

Thus  the  principle  of  the  highest  ideal  in  art,  as 
conceived  by  the  Greeks,  and  unsurpassed  in  its 
purity  and  beauty,  lay  in  considering  well  the  cha- 
racteristics which  distinguish  the  human  form  from 
the  brute  form;  and  then,  in  rendering  the  human 
form,  the  first  aim  was  to  soften  down,  or,  if  possible, 
throw  out  wholly,  those  characteristics  which  belong 
to  the  brute  nature,  or  are  common  to  the  brute  and 
the  man ;  and  the  next,  to  bring  into  prominence  and 


struck  by 
pparently 
between 
ay  people 
y  seem  to 
erial,  into 
bus  asso- 
whelming 
itudinous 

in  art,  as 
d  in  its 
tbe  cba- 
brm  from 
e  buman 
possible, 
h  belong 
)rute  and 
ence  and 


ANAI     JIES. 


240 


even  enlarge  the  proportions  of  those  manifestationB 
of  form  which  distinguish  humanity ;  till,  at  last,  the 
human  merged  into  the  diviney  and  the  God  in  look, 
in  limb,  in  feature,  stood  revealed. 

Let  us  now  suppose  this  broad  principle  which 
the  Greeks  applied  to  form,  ethically  carried  out,  and 
made  the  basis  of  all  education — the  training  of  man 
as  a  race.  Suppose  we  started  with  the  general 
axiom  that  all  propensities  which  we  have  in  common 
with  the  lower  animals  are  to  bo  kept  subordinate, 
and  so  far  as  is  consistent  with  the  truth  of  nature 
refined  away ;  and  that  all  the  qualities  which  ele- 
vate, all  the  aspirations  which  ally  us  with  the 
spiritual,  are  to  be  cultivated  and  rendered  more  and 
more  prominent,  till  at  last  the  human  being,  in 
faculties  as  well  as  form,  approaches  the  God-like — I 
only  say — suppose? ' 

Again:  it  has  been  said  of  natural  philosophy 
(Zoology)  that  in  order  to  make  any  real  progress  in 
the  science,  as  such,  ''  we  must  more  and  more  dis- 
regard  differences,  and  more  and  more  attend  to  the 
obscured  but  essential  conditions  which  are  revealed 
in  resemblances,  in  the  constant  and  similar  relations 
of  primitive  structure."  Now  if  the  same  principle 
were  carried  out  in  theology,  in  morals,  in  art,  as 
well  as  in  science,  should  we  not  come  nearer  to  the 
essential  truth  in  all  ? 

11*  : 


260 


:l'    •  I 


NOTES    ON    AKT. 


97. 


I  \ 


WM 


''  There  is  an  instinctive  sense  of  propriety  and 
reality  in  every  mind ;  and  it  is  not  true,  as  some 
great  authority  has  Laid,  that  in  art  wo  are  satisfied 
with  contemplating  the  work  without  thinking  of  the 
artist.  On  the  contrary,  the  artist  himself  is  one 
great  object  in  the  work.  It  is  as  embodying  the 
energies  and  excellences  of  the  human  mind,  as 
exhibiting  the  efforts  of  genius,  as  symbolising  high 
feeling,  that  we  most  value  the  creations  of  art ;  with- 
out design  the  representations  of  art  arc  merely 
fantastical,  and  without  the  thought  of  a  design  act- 
ing upon  fixed  principles  in  accordance  with  a  high 
standard  of  goodness  and  truth,  half  the  charm  of 
design  is  lost." 

,■    .        ',  -  98.  •'  "■■    ■■'  ^=' 

"  Art,  used  collectively  for  painting,  sculpture, 
architecture  and  music,  is  the  mediatress  between, 
and  reconciler  of,  nature  and  man.  It  is,  therefore, 
the  power  of  humanising  nature,  of  infusing  the 
thoughts  and  passions  of  man  into  everything  which 
is  the  object  of  his  contemplation.  Colour,  form, 
motion,  sound,  are  the  elements  which  it  combines, 
and  it  stamps  them  into  unity  in  the  mould  of  a 
moral  idea." 

This  is  Coleridge's  definition : — Art  then  is  na- 
ture, humanised ;  and  in  proportion  as  humanity  is 


5'   %» 


)riety  and 
,  as  some 
e  satisfied 
ing  of  the 
elf  is  one 
dying  the 
mind,  as 
ising  high 
art;  with- 
re  merely 
lesigu  act- 
ith  a  high 
charm  of 


-.      .'..'ir 


sculpture, 
between, 
therefore, 
using  the 
ling  which 
5ur,  form, 
combines, 
ould  of  a 

len  is  na- 
imanity  is 


DEFINITION    or   ART. 


2M 


elevated  by  the  interfusion  into  our  life  of  noble 
aims  and  pure  a£fections  will  art  be  spiritualised 
and  moralised. 


If  faith  has  elevated  art,  superstition  has  every- 
where debased  it. 

100. 

Goethe  observes  that  there  is  no  patriotic  art  and 
no  patriotic  science — that  both  are  universal. 

There  is,  however,  national  art,  but  not  national 
science :  we  say  "  national  art,"  "  natural  science." 

101. 

"  Verse  is  in  itself  music,  and  the  natural  symbol 
of  that  union  of  passion  with  thought  and  pleasure, 
which  constitutes  the  essence  of  all  poetry  as  con- 
tradistinguished from  history  civil  or  natural." — 
^.  .ridge. 

In  the  arts  of  design,  colour  is  to  form  what  verse 
is  to  prose — a  more  harmonious  and  luminous  vehicle 
of  the  thought. 

102. 

Subjects  and  representations  in  art  not  elevated 
nor  interesting  in  themselves,  become  instructive  and 
interesting  to  higher  minds  from  the  manner  in  which 
they  have  been  treated ;  perhaps  because  they  have 


252 


MOTES   ON    ART. 


passed  through  the  medium  of  a  higher  mind  in  tak- 
ing form. 

This  is  one  reason,  though  we  are  not  always  con- 
scious of  it,  that  the  Dutch  pictures  of  common  and 
vulgar  life  give  us  a  pleasure  apart  from  their  won- 
derful finish  and  truth  of  detail.  In  the  mind  of 
the  artist  there  must  have  been  the  power  to  throw 
himself  into  a  sphere  above  what  he  represents. 
Adrian  Brouwer,  for  instance,  must  have  been  some- 
thing far  better  than  a  sot ;  Ostade  something  higher 
than  a  boor;  though  the  habits  of  both  led  them 
into  companionship  with  sots  and  boors.  In  the  most 
farcical  pictures  of  Jan  Steen  there  is  a  depth  of  feel- 
ing and  observation  which  remind  me  of  the  humour 
of  Goldsmith;  and  Teniers,  we  know,  was  in  his 
habits  a  refined  gentleman ;  the  brilliant  elegance  of 
his  pencil  contrasting  with  the  grotesque  vulgarity 
of  his  subjects.  To  a  thinking  mind,  some  of  these 
Dutch  pictures  of  character  are  full  of  material  for 
thought,  pathetic  even  where  least  sympathetic :  no 
doubt,  because  of  a  latent  sympathy  with  the  artist, 
apart  from  his  subject.  ,     , 


108. 

Coleridge  says, — ^"  Every  human  feeling  is  greater 
and  larger  tban  the  exciting  cause."  (A  philosophical 
way  of  putting  Bochefoucauld's  neatly  expressed 
apothegm :  ''  Nous  ne  sommes  jamais  ni  si  heureux 
ni  si  malheureux  que  nous  I'imaginons.")   "  A  proof," 


MORALS   IN   ART. 


258 


ind  in  tak- 

Jways  con- 
mmon  and 
their  won- 
)  mind  of 
T  to  throw 
represents, 
been  some- 
ling  higher 

led  them 
n  the  most 
pth  of  feel- 
he  humour 
N&a  in  his 
legance  of 
5  vulgarity 
le  of  these 
laterial  for 
thetio:  no 

the  artist, 


;  is  greater 
ilosophical 
expressed 
si  heureuz 
'  A  proof," 


he  proceeds, ''  that  man  is  designed  for  a  higher  state 
of  existence ;  and  this  is  deeply  implied  in  music,  in 
which  there  is  always  something  more  and  beyond 
the  immediate  expression." 

But  not  music  only,  every  production  of  art 
ought  to  excite  emotions  greater  and  thoughts  larger 
than  itself.  Thoughts  and  emotions  which  never 
perhaps  were  in  the  mind  of  the  artist,  nevoi  wero 
anticipated,  never  were  intended  by  him — may  bo 
strongly  suggested  by  his  work.  This  is  an  impor- 
tant part  of  the  morals  of  art,  which  we  must  never 
lose  sight  of.  Art  is  not  only  for  pleasure  and  p3  ofit, 
but  for  good  and  for  evil. 

Goethe  (in  the  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit)  describes 
the  reception  of  Marie  Antoinette  at  Strasbourg, 
where  she  passed  the  frontier  to  enter  her  new  king- 
dom. She  was  then  a  lovely  girl  of  sixteen.  He 
relates  that  on  visiting  before  her  arrival  the  reception 
room  on  the  bridge  over  the  Rhine,  where  her  Ger- 
man attendants  were  to  deliver  her  into  the  hands  of 
the  French  authorities,  he  found  the  walls  hung  with 
tapestries  representing  the  ominous  story  of  Jis.on 
and  Medea — of  all  the  marriages  on  record  tbo  Tnost 
fearful,  the  most  tragic  in  its  consequences.  "  'tV  hat  I " 
he  exclaims,  his  poetical  imagination  struck  with  the 
want  of  moral  harmony,  "  ^^us  fiere  among  these 
French  architects  and  decorators  no  man  who  could 
^perceive  that  pictures  represent  things, — that  they 
have  a  meaning  in  themselves, — that  they  can  im- 


254 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


press  sense  and  feeling, — that  they  can  awaken  pre- 
sentiments of  good  or  evil  ?  "  But,  as  he  tells  us, 
his  exclamations  of  horror  were  met  by  the  mockery 
of  his  French  companions,  who  assured  him  that  it 
was  not  everybody's  concern  to  look  for  significance 
in  pictures. 

These  self-same  tapestries  of  the  story  of  Jason 
and  Medea  were  after  the  Restoration  presented  by 
Louis  XVIII.  to  George  IV.,  and  at  present  they 
line  the  walls  of  the  Ball-room  in  Windsor  Castle. 
We  might  repeat,  with  some  reason,  the  question  of 
Goethe ;  for  if  pictures  have  a  significance,  and  speak 
to  the  imagination,  what  has  the  tragedy  of  Jason 
and  Medea  to  do  in  a  ball-room  ? 

Goethe,  who  thus  laid  down  the  principle  that 
works  of  art  speak  to  the  feelings  and  the  conscience, 
and  can  awaken  associations  tending  to  good  and  evil, 
by  some  strange  inconsistency  places  art  and  artists 
out  of  the  sphere  of  morals.  He  speaks  somewhere 
with  contempt  and  ridicule  of  those  who  take  their 
conscience  and  their  morality  with  them  to  an  opera 
or  a  picture  gallery.  Yet  surely  he  is  wrong.  Why 
should  we  not  ?  Are  our  conscience  and  our  morals 
like  articles  of  dress  which  we  can  take  off  and  put 
on  again  as  we  fancy  it  convenient  or  expedient  ? — 
shut  up  in  a  drawer  and  leave  behind  us  when  we 
visit  a  theatre  or  a  gallery  of  art  ?  or  are  they  not 
rather  a  part  of  ourselves — our  very  life — to  graduate 


MORALS   IN    ART. 


255 


raken  pre- 
e  tells  us, 
3  mockery 
im  that  it 
ignificance 

of  Jason 
sented  by 
esent  they 
jor  Castle, 
uestion  of 
and  speak 
'  of  Jason 

ciple  that 
lonscience, 
d  and  evil, 
md  artists 
lomewhere 
take  their 
»  an  opera 
Dg.  Why 
)ur  morals 
flf  and  put 
edient  ? — 
J  when  we 
I  they  not 
)  graduate 


1 1- 


the  worth,  to  fix  the  standard  of  all  that  mingles  with 
our  life  ?  The  idea  that  what  we  call  taste  in  art 
has  something  quite  distinctive  from  conscience,  is 
one  cause  that  the  popular  notions  concerning  the 
productions  of  art  are  abandoned  to  such  confusion 
and  uncertainty ;  that  simple  people  regard  taste  as 
something  forensic,  something  to  be  learned,  as  they 
would  learn  a  language,  and  mastered  by  a  study  of 
rules  and  a  dictionary  of  epithets ;  and  they  look  up 
to  a  professor  of  taste,  just  as  they  would  look  up  to 
a  professor  of  Greek  or  of  Hebrew.  Either  they 
listen  to  judgments  lightly  and  confidently  promul- 
gated with  a  sort  of  puzzled  faith  and  a  surrender 
of  their  own  moral  sense,  which  are  pitiable  ; — as  if 
art  also  had  its  infallible  church  and  its  hierarchy  of 
dictators ! — or  they  fly  into  the  opposite  extreme, 
and  seeing  themselves  deceived  and  misled,  fall  away 
into  strange  heresies.  All  from  ignorance  of  a  few 
laws  simple  in  their  form,  yet  infinite  in  their  appli- 
cation;— natural  laws  we  must  call  tliem,  though 
here  applied  to  art. 

In  my  younger  days  I  have  known  men  conspicu- 
ous for  their  want  of  elevated  principle,  and  for  their 
dissipated  habits,  held  up  as  arbiters  and  judges  of 
art ;  but  it  was  to  them  only  another  form  of  epi- 
curism and  self-indulgence ;  and  I  have  seen  them 
led  into  such  absurd  and  fatal  mistakes  for  want  of 
the  power  to  distinguish  and  to  generalise,  that  I 
have  despised  their  judgment,  and  have  come  to  the 


A 


'■m 


256 


NOTES   ON   ART. 


1 1 


conclusion  that  a  really  high  standard  of  taste  and 
a  low  standard  of  morals  are  incompatible  with  each 
other. 


104. 


^r 


"  The  fact  of  the  highest  artistic  genius  having 
manifested  itself  in  a  poljtbsistic  age,  and  among  a 
people  whose  moral  views  were  essentially  degraded, 
has,  we  think,  fostered  the  erroneous  notion  that  the 
sphere  of  art  has  no  connection  with  that  of  morality. 
The  Greeks,  with  penetrative  insight,  dilated  the 
essential  characteristics  of  man's  organism  as  a  vehicle 
of  superior  intelligence,  while  their  intense  sympathy 
with  physical  beauty  made  them  alive  to  its  most 
subtle  manifestations ;  and  reproducing  their  impres- 
sions through  the  medium  of  art,  they  have  given 
birth  to  models  of  the  human  form,  which  reveal  its 
highest  possibilities,  and  the  excellence  of  which  de- 
pends upon  their  being  individual  expressions  of  ideal 
truth.  Thus,  too,  in  their  descriptions  of  nature, 
instead  of  multiplying  insignificant  details,  they 
seized  instinctively  upon  the  characteristic  features 
of  her  varying  aspects,  and  not  unfrequently  embodied 
a  finished  picture  in  one  comprehensive  and  harmoni* 
ous  word.  In  association  with  their  marvellous 
genius,  however,  we  find  a  cruelty,  a  treachery,  and 
a  licence  which  would  be  revolting  if  it  were  not  for 
the  historical  interest  which  attaches  to  every  genuine 
record  of  a  bygone  age.     Their  low  moral  standard 


w 


MORALS  IN   ART. 


257 


taste  and 
with  eaoh 


Lus  having 
d  among  a 
-  degraded, 
n  that  the 
f  morality, 
iilated  the 
IS  a  vehicle 

sympathy 
D  its  most 
eir  impres- 
lave  given 
1  reveal  its 

which  de- 
ms  of  ideal 

of  nature, 
tails,  they 
ic  features 
\f  embodied 
d  harmoni- 
marvellous 
chery,  and 
ere  not  for 
iry  genuine 
il  standard 


cannot  excite  surprise  when  we  consider  the  debasing 
tendency  of  their  worship,  the  objects  of  their  adora- 
tion being  nothing  more  than  their  own  degraded 
passions  invested  with  some  of  the  attributes  mI  deity. 
Now,  among  the  modifications  of  thought  introduced 
by  Christianity,  there  is  perhaps  none  more  pregnant 
with  important  results  than  the  harmony  which  it  has 
established  between  religion  and  morality.  The 
great  law  of  right  and  wrong  has  acquired  a  sacred 
character,  when  viewed  as  an  expression  of  the  divine 
will ;  it  takes  its  rank  among  the  eternal  verities,  and 
to  ignore  it  in  our  delineations  of  life,  or  to  represent 
sin  otherwise  than  as  treason  against  the  supreme 
ruler,  is  to  retain  in  modern  civilisation  one  of  the 
degrading  elements  of  heathenism.  Conscience  is  as 
great  a  fact  of  our  inner  life  as  the  sense  of  beauty, 
and  the  harmonious  action  of  both  these  instinctive 
principles  is  essential  to  the  highest  enjoyment  of  art, 
for  any  internal  dissonance  disturbs  the  repose  of  the 
mind,  and  thereby  shatters  the  image  mirrored  in  its 
depths."— il.  S. 


J!i:^;;'v. 


106. 


--.    .;»   .V,  .»  U 


"  Mais  vous  autres  artistes,  vous  ne  considerez 
pour  la  plupart  dans  les  oeuvres  que  la  beauty  ou  la 
singularite  de  I'execution,  sans  vous  penetrer  de 
I'id^e  dont  cet  ceuvre  est  la  forme ;  ainsi  votre  intelli- 
gence adore  souvent  I'expression  d'un  sentiment  que 


258 


> 


X 


NOTES    ON   ART. 


l>. 


M 


voire  ooeur  repousserait  s'il  cd  avait  la  consoienoe." 
—  George  Sand.  -  ..a 

106. 

Lavater  told  Goethe  that  on  a  certain  occasion 
when  he  held  the  velvet  bag  in  the  church  as  collec- 
tor of  the  offerings,  he  tried  to  observe  only  the  hands; 
and  he  satisfied  himself  that  in  every  individual,  the 
shape  of  the  hand  and  of  the  fingers,  the  action  and 
sentimeat  in  dropping  the  gift  into  the  bag,  were  dis- 
tinctly different  and  individually  characteristic. 

What  then  shall  we  say  of  Van  Dyck,  who  painted 
the  hands  of  his  men  and  women,  not  from  individual 
nature,  but  from  a  model  hand — his  own  very  often  ? 
— and  every  one  who  considers  for  a  moment  will 
see  in  Van  Dyck's  portraits,  that,  however  well 
painted  and  elegant  the  hands,  they  in  very  few  in- 
stances harmonise  with  the  personalite; — that  the 
position  is  often  affected,  and  as  if  intended  for  display. 
— the  display  of  what  is  in  itself  a  positive  fault,  and 
from  which  some  little  knowledge  of  comparative 
physiology  would  have  saved  him. 

There  are  hands  of  various  character ;  the  hand 
to  catch,  and  the  hand  to  hold ;  the  hand  to  clasp, 
and  the  hand  to  grasp.  The  hand  that  has  worked  or 
could  work,  and  the  hand  that  has  never  done  any- 
thing but  hold  itself  out  to  be  kissed,  like  that  of 
Joanna  of  Arragon  in  Raphael's  picture. 
.;      Let  any  one  look  at  the  hands  in  Titian's  portrait 


Id 


nsoienoe. 


)) 


n  occasion 
L  as  colleo- 
the  hands; 
ddual,  the 
action  and 
,  were  dis- 
istio. 

ho  painted 
individual 
ery  often  ? 
oment  will 
rever  well 
ery  few  in- 
— that  the 
'or  display, 
fault,  and 
Dmparatiye 

;  the  hand 
d  to  clasp, 
worked  or 
•  done  any- 
ke  that  of 

I's  portrait 


MOZAKT   AND    OHOPIN. 


259 


of  old  Paul  lY. :  though  exquisitely  modelled,  they 
have  an  expression  which  reminds  us  of  claws ;  they 
belong  to  the  face  of  that  grasping  old  man,  and 
could  belong  to  no  other,      i 

107. 

Mozart  and  Chopin,  though  their  genius  was  dif- 
ferently developed,  were  alike  in  some  things:  in 
nothing  more  than  this,  that  the  artistic  element  in 
both  minds  wholly  dominated  over  the  social  and 
practical,  and  that  their  art  was  the  element  in  which 
they  moved  and  lived,  through  which  they  felt  and 
thought.  I  doubt  whether  either  of  them  could  have 
said,  "  D^abordje  suis  hoftime  etpuisje  suis  artiste  i " 
whereas  this  could  have  been  said  with  truth  by 
Mendelsohn  and  by  Litzst.  In  Mendelsohn  the 
enormous  creative  power  was  modified  by  the  intellect 
and  the  conscience.     Litzst  has  no  creative  power. 

Litzst  has  thus  drawn  the  character  of  Chopin : — 
"  Rien  n'^tait  plus  pur  et  plus  exalte  en  m^me  temps 
que  ses  pens6es;  rien  n'etait  plus  tenace,  plus  ex- 
clusif,  et  plus  minutieusement  devoue  que  ses  aflfec- 
tions.  Mais  cet  Hre  ne  comprenait  que  ce  qui  6tait 
identique  a  lui-m^me: — le  reste  n'existait  pour  lui 
que  comme  une  sorte  de  reve  facheux,  auquel  il 
essayait  de  se  soustraire  en  vivant  au  milieu  du 
monde.  Toujours  perdu  dans  ses  reveries,  la  reality 
lui  deplaisait.  Enfant  il  ne  pouvait  toucher  k  un 
instrument  tranchant  sans  se  blesser ;  hcmme  il  ne 


260 


NOTES   OK   ART. 


In 


pouvait  se  trouver  en  face  d'un  homme  different  de 
lui,  sans  se  heurter  centre  cette  contradiction 
vivante." 

''  Oe  qui  le  pr^servait  d'un  antagonisme  perp^tuel 
o'6tait  I'habitude  volontaire  et  bient6t  inv^t^ree  de 
ne  point  voir,  de  ne  pas  entendre  ce  qui  lui  deplaisait : 
en  g^n^ral  sans  toucher  t  scs  affections  personelles, 
les  Stres  qui  ne  pensaient  pas  comme  lui  devenaient 
k  ses  yeux  comme  des  espdces  de  fant6mes;  et 
comme  il  ^tait  d'une  politesse  charmante,  ou  pouvait 
prendre  pour  une  bienveillance  courtoise  ce  qui 
n'^tait  chez  lui  qu'un  froid  dedain — ^une  aversion 
insurmontable." 


"i/i'H 


"  The  father  of  Mozart  was  a  man  of  high  and  strict 
rieligious  principle.  He  had  a  conviction — in  this 
case  more  truly  founded  than  is  usual — that  he  was 
the  father  of  a  great,  a  surpassing  genius,  and  con- 
sequently of  a  being  unfortunate  in  this,  that  he 
must  be  in  advance  of  his  age,  exposed  to  error,  to 
envy,  to  injustice,  to  strife ;  and  to  do  his  duty  to  his 
son  demanded  large  faith  and  large  firmness.  But 
because  he  did  estimate  this  sacred  trust  as  a  duty  to 
be  discharged,  not  only  with  respect  to  his  gifted  son, 
but  to  the  God  who  had  so  endowed  him ;  so,  in  spite 
of  many  mistakes,  the  earnest,  straightforward  endea- 
vour to  do  right  in  the  present  seems  to  have  saved 
Mozart's  moral  life,  and  to  have  given  that  complete- 


II 


CHOPIN    AND    MOZART. 


261 


iffi^rent  de 
atradiotion 

e  perp6tuel 
v6t6ree  de 
deplaisait : 
personelles, 
devenaient 
it6mes ;  et 
ou  pouvait 
se  ce  qui 
ae  ayer$ion 


b  and  strict 
311 — in  this 
that  he  was 
IS,  and  con- 
is,  that  he 
to  error,  to 

duty  to  his 
mess.  But 
AS  a  duty  to 
3  gifted  son, 

so,  in  spite 
ward  endea- 

have  saved 
at  complete- 


ness to  the  productions  of  his  genius,  which  the  har- 
mony of  the  moral  and  creative  faculties  alone  can 
bestow. 

"  The  modifying  power  of  circumstances  on  Mo- 
zart's style,  is  an  interesting  consideration.  What- 
ever of  striking,  of  new  or  beautiful  he  met  with  in 
the  works  of  others  left  its  impression  on  him ;  and 
he  often  reproduced  these  efforts,  not  servilely,  but 
mingling  his  own  nature  and  feelings  with  them  in  a 
manner  not  less  surprising  than  delightful." 

This  is  true  equally  of  Shakespeare  nnd  of 
Raphael,  both  of  whom  adapted  or  rather  adopted 
much  from  their  precursors  in  the  way  of  material  to 
work  upon ;  and  whose  incomparable  originality  con- 
sisted in  the  interfusion  of  their  own  great  individual 
genius  with  every  subject  they  touched,  so  that  it 
became  theirs,  and  could  belong  to  no  other. 

The  Figaro  was  composed  at  Vienna.  The  Don 
Juan  and  Clemenza  di  Tito  at  Prague; — which  I 
note  because  the  localities  are  so  characteristic  of 
the  operas.  Cimarosa's  Matrimonio  Segreto  was 
composed  at  Prague ;  it  was  on  the  fortification  of 
the  Hradschin  one  morning  at  sun-rise  that  he  com- 
posed the  Fria  che  spunti  in  del  Vaurora. 

When  called  upon  to  describe  his  method  of 
composing,  what  Mozart  said  of  himself  was  very 
striking  from  its  naivete  and  truth.  "  I  do  not,"  he 
said,  "  aim  at  originality.     I  do  not  know  in  what 


262 


NOTES    ON   ART,  it 


ill 

pi! 

m 
m 

B'l'ill 


p:  I 


my  originality  consists.  Why  my  productions  take 
from  my  hand  that  particular  form  or  style  which 
makes  them  Mozartishj  and  different  from  the  works 
of  other  composers  is  probably  owing  to  the  samo 
cause  which  makes  my  nose  this  or  that  particular 
shape ;  makes  it,  in  short,  Mozart's  nose,  and  differ- 
ent from  other  people's." 

Yet  as  a  composer,  Mozart  was  as  objectivey  as 
dramatic,  as  Shakespeare  and  Raphael ;  Chopin,  in 
comparison,  was  wholly  suljectivey — the  Byron  of 
Music. 

Talking  once  with  Adelaide  Kcmble,  after  she 
had  been  singing  in  the  ''  Figaro,"  she  compared  the 
music  to  the  bosom  of  a  full  blown  rose  in  its  volup- 
tuous, intoxicating  richness.  I  said  that  some  of 
Mozart's  melodies  seemed  to  me  not  so  much  com- 
posed, but  found — found  on  some  sunshiny  day  in 
Arcadia,  among  nymphs  and  flowers.  "  Yes,"  she 
replied,  with  ready  and  felicitous  expression,  ''  not 
inventions^  but  existences.''^ 

no.  /^ 

Old  George  the  Third,  in  his  blindness  and  mad- 
ness, once  insisted  on  making  the  selection  of  pieces 
for  the  concert  of  ancient  music  (May,  1811), — it  was 
soon  after  the  death  of  the  Princess  Amelia.  ''  Th« 
programme  included  some  of  the  finest  passages  in 


M ADLLB.   RACHEL. 


268 


tions  take 
yle  which 
the  works 
the  same 
particular 
ind  differ- 

jective^  as 
)hopin,  in 
Byron  of 


\W 


after  she 
ipared  the 
its  volup- 

some  of 
auch  com- 
ly  day  in 
STes,"  she 
ion,   "not 


and  mad- 
of  pieces 
), — it  was 
a.  "  Th« 
sissages  in 


Handel's  '  Samson,'  descriptive  of  blindness ;  the 
'  Lamentation  of  Jephthah,'  for  his  daughter ;  Pur- 
cel's  '  Mad  Tom,'  and  closed  with  '  God  save  the 
King,"  to  make  sure  the  application  of  all  that  went 
before." 

111. 

"  Every  one  who  remembers  what  Madlle.  Rachel 
was  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  and  who  sees  her  now 
(1853),  will  allow  that  she  has  made  no  progress  in 
any  of  the  essential  excellences  of  her  art.  A  cer- 
tain proof  that  she  is  not  a  great  artist  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word.  She  is  a  finished  actress,  but  she 
is  nothing  more,  and  nothing  better ;  not  enough  the 
artist  ever  to  forget  or  conceal  her  art,  consequently 
there  is  a  want  somewhere,  which  a  mind  highly 
toned  and  of  quick  perceptions  feels  from  beginning 
to  end.  The  parts  in  which  she  once  excelled — the 
PhSdre  and  the  Hermione,  for  instance — have  be- 
come formalised  and  hard,  like  studies  cast  in  bronze ; 
and  when  she  plays  a  new  part  it  has  no  freshness.  I 
always  go  to  see  her  whenever  I  can.  I  admire  her 
as  what  she  is — the  Parisian  actress,  practised  in 
every  trick  of  her  metier.  I  admire  what  she  does, 
I  think  how  well  it  is  all  donc^  and  am  inclined  to 
clap  and  applaud  her  drapery,  perfect  and  ostenta- 
tiously studied  in  every  fold,  just  with  the  same  feel- 
ing that  I  applaud  myself. 

As  to  the  last  scene  of  Adrienne  Lecouvreur, 


•J) 


^>!? 


264 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


t  '  l!li 


(which  those  who  are  avides  de  sensation^  athirsfc  for 
painful  emotion,  go  to  see  as  they  would  drink  a 
dram,  and  critics  laud  as  a  miracle  of  art ;  it  is  al- 
together a  mistake  and  a  failure,)  it  is  beyond  the 
just  limits  of  terror  and  pity — beyond  the  legitimate 
sphere  of  art.  It  reminds  us  of  the  story  of  Gentil 
Bellini  and  the  Sultan.  The  Sultan  much  admired 
his  picture  of  the  decollation  of  John  the  Baptist, 
but  informed  him  that  it  was  inaccurate — surgically — 
for  the  tendons  and  muscles  ought  to  shrink  where 
divided ;  and  then  calling  for  one  of  his  slaves,  he 
drew  his  scimitar,  and  striking  off  the  head  of  the 
wretch,  gave  the  horror-struck  artist  a  lesson  in  prac- 
tical anatomy.  So  we  might  possibly  learn  from 
Rachel's  imitative  representation,  (studied  in  an  hos- 
pital as  they  say,)  how  poison  acts  on  the  frame,  and 
how  the  limbs  and  features  writhe  unto  death ;  but 
if  she  were  a  great  moral  artist  she  would  feel  that 
what  is  allowed  to  be  true  in  painting,  is  true  in  art 
generally;  that  mere  imitation,  such  as  the  vulgar 
delight  in,  and  hold  up  their  hands  to  see,  is  the 
vulgarest  and  easiest  aim  of  the  imitative  arts,  and 
that  between  the  true  interpretation  of  poetry  in  art 
and  such  base  mechanical  means  to  the  lowest  ends, 
there  lies  an  immeasurable  distance. 

I  am  disposed  to  think  that  Eachel  has  not  genius, 
but  talent,  and  that  her  talent,  from  what  I  see  year 
after  year,  has  a  downward  tendency, — ^there  is  not 
sufficient  moral  seasoning  to  save  it  from  corruption. 


MADLLE.    KACIIKL. 


265 


athirst  for 
1  drink  a 
;  it  is  al- 
eyond  the 
logitimate 
'  of  Gentil 
h  admired 
be  Baptist, 
[irgioally — 
rink  where 
I  slaves,  he 
ead  of  the 
ion  in  prao- 
learn  from 

in  an  hos- 
frame,  and 
death;  but 
Id  feel  that 

true  in  art 
the  vulgar 
see,  is  the 
e  arts,  and 
)etry  in  art 
owest  ends, 

not  genius, 

I  see  year 

there  is  not 

corruption. 


I  remember  that  when  first  I  saw  her  in  Hermione 
she  reminded  me  of  a  serpent,  and  the  same  impies> 
sion  continues.  The  long  meagre  form  with  its 
graceful  undulating  movements,  the  long  narrow  face 
and  features,  the  contracted  jaw,  the  high  brow,  the 
brilliant  supernatural  eyes  which  seem  to  glance 
every  way  at  once ;  the  sinister  smile ;  the  painted 
red  lips,  which  look  as  though  they  had  lapped,  or 
could  lap,  blood ;  all  these  bring  before  me,  the  idea 
of  a  Lamia,  the  serpent  nature  in  the  woman's  form. 
In  Lydia,  and  in  Athalie,  she  touches  the  extremes 
of  vice  and  wickedness  with  such  a  masterly  light- 
ness and  precision,  that  I  am  full  of  wondering  ad- 
miration for  the  actress.  There  is  not  a  turn  of  her 
figure,  not  an  expression  in  her  face,  not  a  fold  in  her 
gorgeous  drapery,  that  is  not  a  study ;  but  withall 
such  a  consciousness  of  her  art,  and  such  an  ostenta- 
tion of  the  means  she  employs,  that  the  power  remains 
always  extraneous^  as  it  were,  and  exciting  only  to 
the  senses  and  the  intellect.  - 

Latterly  she  has  become  a  hard  mannerist.  Her 
face,  once  so  flexible,  has  lost  the  power  of  expressing 
the  nicer  shades  and  softer  gradations  of  feeling ;  so 
much  so,  that  they  write  dramas  for  her  with  super- 
naturally  wicked  and  depraved  heroines  to  suit  her 
especial  powers.  I  conceive  that  an  artist  could  not 
sink  lower  in  degradation.  Yet,  to  satisfy  the  taste  of 
a  Parisian  audience  and  the  ambition  of  a  Parisian 
actress    this  was  not  enough,   and  wickedness  re- 

12 


266 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


h\^. 


quired  the  piquancy  of  immediate  approximation  with 
innocence.  In  the  Valeria  she  played  two  characters, 
and  appeared  on  the  stage  alternately  as  a  miracle  of 
vice  and  a  miracle  of  virtue  :  an  abandoned  prostitute 
and  a  chaste  matron.  There  was  something  in  this 
contrasted  impersonation,  considered  simply  in  rela- 
tion to  the  aims  and  objects  of  art,  so  revolting,  that 
I  sat  in  silent  and  deep  disgust,  which  was  partly 
deserved  by  the  audiemce  which  could  endure  the 
exhibition.  . 

It  is  the  entire  absence  of  the  high  poetic  element 
which  distinguishes  Baohel  as  an  actress,  and  places 
her  at  such  an  immeasurable  distance  from  Mrs. 
Siddons,  that  it  shocks  me  to  hear  them  named 
together. 

112. 

It  is  no  reproach  to  a  capital  actress  to  play  effec* 
tively  a  very  wicked  character.  Mrs.  Siddons  played 
the  abandoned  Millwood  as  carefully,  as  completely 
as  she  played  Hermionc  and  Constance ;  but  if  it  had 
required  a  perpetual  succession  of  Calistas  and  Mill- 
woods to  call  forth  her  highest  powers,  what  should 
we  think  of  the  woman  and  the  artist  ?      / 


113. 


When  dramas  and  characters  are  invented  to  suit 
the  particular  talent  of  a  particular  actor  or  actress, 
it  argues  rather  a  limited  range  of  the  artistic  power ; 


HISTRIONIC    AKT. 


26*} 


mation  with 
)  characters, 
Ek  miracle  of 
d  prostitute 
ting  in  this 
ply  in  rela- 
rolting,  that 
was  partly 
endure  the 

etio  element 

,  and  places 

from  Mrs. 

hem  named 


0  play  eflFec- 
dons  played 
completely 
)ut  if  it  had 
.B  and  Mill- 
rhat  should 


nted  to  suit 
or  actress, 
Stic  power ; 


though  within  that  limit  the  power  may  be  great  and 
the  talent  genuine. 

Thus  for  Listen  and  for  Miss  O'Neil,  so  distin- 
guished in  their  respective  lines  of  Comedy  and 
Tragedy,  characters  were  especially  constructed  and 
plays  written,  which  have  not  been  acted  since  th«ir 

time.  '    '  y 

114    ' 

»  t'  i.',v ,  ■   . .. 

A  celebrated  German  actress  (who  has  quitted  the 
stage  for  many  years)  speaking  of  Rachel,  said  that 
the  reason  she  must  always  stop  short  of  the  highest 
place  in  art,  is  because  she  is  nothing  but  an  actress— 
that  only ;  and  has  no  aims  in  life,  has  no  duties, 
feelings,  employments,  sympathies,  but  those  which 
centre  in  herself  in  the  interests  of  her  art ; — which 
thus  ceases  to  be  art  and  becomes  a  metier. 

This  reminded  me  of  what  Pauline  Yiardot  once 
said  to  me : — "  D'abord  je  suis  femme^  aveo  les 
devoirs,  les  affections,  les  sentiments  d'une  femme ; 
et  puis  je  suis  artiste.^'' 

116. 

The  same  German  actress  whose  opinion  I  have 
quoted,  told  me  that  the  Leonora  and  the  Iphigenia 
of  Goethe  were  the  parts  she  preferred  to  play. 
The  Thekla  and  the  Beatrice  of  Schiller  next.  (In 
all  these  she  excelled.)  The  parts  easiest  to  her, 
requiring  no  effort  scarcely,  were  Jerta  (in  Houwald's 


mi 


u-  "i 


f  :; 


268 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


Tragedy,  "Die  Schuld"),  and  Clarchen  in  Egmont; 
of  the  character  of  Jerta,  she  said  beautifully : — 
"  Ich  habe  es  nicht  gespielt,  Ich  habe  es  gesagt ! "  (I 
did  not  play  it,  I  uttered  it.)  This  was  extremely 
characteristic  of  the  woman.  '    '         - 

I  once  asked  Mrs.  Siddons,  which  of  her  great 
characters  she  preferred  to  play  ?  She  replied  after 
a  moment's  consideration,  and  in  her  rich  deliberate 
emphatic  tones : — "  Lady  Macbeth  is  the  character 
I  have  most  studied^  She  afterwards  said  that  she 
had  played  the  character  during  thirty  years,  and 
scarcely  acted  it  once,  without  carefully  reading  over 
the  part  and  generally  the  whole  play  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  and  that  she  never  read  over  the  play  without 
finding  something  new  in  it ;  "  something,"  she  said, 
"  which  had  not  struck  me  so  much  as  it  ought  to 
have  struck  me." 

Of  Mrs.  Pritchard,  who  preceded  Mrs.  Siddons  in 
the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth,  it  was  well  known  that 
she  had  never  read  the  play.  She  merely  studied 
her  own  part  as  written  out  by  the  stage-copyist ;  of 
the  other  parts  she  knew  nothing  bu*.  the  cues. 


I 


m 


1 1 


116. 


When  I  asked  Mrs.  Henry  Siddons,  which  of  her 
characters  she  preferred  playing  ?  she  said  at  once, 
"  Imogen,  in  Cymbeline,  was  the  character  I  played 


1 1 


1 

J 


ACTRESSES. 


260 


in  Egmont; 
autifuUy : — 
gesagt ! "  (I 
s  extremely 

af  her  great 
replied  after 
h  deliberate 
he  character 
laid  that  she 


years, 


and 


reading  over 
1  the  morn- 
play  without 
g,"  she  said, 
it  ought  to 

;.  Siddons  in 
known  that 

irely  studied 
copyist;  of 
cues. 


which  of  her 
dd  at  once, 
er  I  played 


I 


with  most  ease  to  myself,  and  most  success  as  re- 
garded the  public;  it  cost  no  effort." 

This  was  confirmed  by  others.  A  very  good 
judge  said  of  her — "In  some  of  her  best  parts,  as 
Juliet,  Rosalind,  and  Lady  Townley,  she  may  have 
been  approached  or  equalled.  In  Viola  and  Imogen 
she  was  never  equalled.  In  the  grace  and  simplicity 
of  the  first,  in  the  refinement  and  shy  but  impas- 
sioned tenderness  of  the  last,  /  at  least  have  never 
seen  any  one  to  be  compared  to  her.  She  hardly 
seemed  to  act  these  parts ;  they  came  naturally  to 
her." 

This  reminds  me  of  another  anecdote  of  the  same 
accomplished  actress  and  admirable  woman.  The 
people  of  Edinburgh,  among  whom  she  lived,  had  so 
identified  her  with  all  that  was  gentle,  refined  and 
noble,  that  they  did  not  like  to  see  her  play  wicked 
parts.  It  happened  that  Godwin  went  down  to 
Edinburgh  with  a  tragedy  in  his  pocket,  which  had 
been  accepted  by  the  theatre  there,  and  in  which 
Mrs.  Henry  Siddons  was  to  play  the  principal  part 
— that  of  a  very  wicked  woman  (I  forget  the  name 
of  the  piece).  Ho  was  warned  that  it  risked  the 
success  of  his  play,  but  her  conception  of  the  part 
was  so  just  and  spirited,  that  he  persisted.  At  the 
rehearsal  she  stopped  in  the  midst  of  one  of  her 
speeches  and  said,  with  great  naivete,  "  I  am  afraid, 
Mr.  Godwin,  the  people  will  not  endure  to  hear  me 
say  this !  "     He  replied  coolly, "  My  dear,  you  cannot 


i 


:-.& 


2*70 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


i 


be  always  young  and  pretty — you  must  come  to  this 
at  last, — ^go  on."  He  mislook  her  meaning  and  the 
feeling  of  "  the  people."  The  play  failed;  and  the 
audience  took  care  to  discriminate  between  their 
disapprobation  of  the  piece  and  their  admiration  for 
the  actress. 

117. 

Madame  Schroeder  Devrient  told  me  that  she  sung 
with  most  pleasure  to  herself  in  the  "  Fidelio ;  "  and 
in  this  part  I  have  never  seen  her  equalled. 

Fanny  Kemble  told  me  the  part  she  had  played 
with  most  pleasure  to  herself,  was  Camiola,  in  Mas- 
singer's  "  Maid  of  Honour."  It  was  an  exquisite 
impersonation,  but  the  play  itself  inefifective  and 
not  successful,  because  of  the  weak  and  worthless 
character  of  the  hero. 


118. 

Mrs.  Charles  Kean  told  me  that  she  had  played 
with  great  ease  and  pleasure  to  herself,  the  part  of 
Ginevra,  in  Leigh  Hunt's  "  Legend  of  Florence." 
She  made  the  part  (as  it  is  technically  termed),  and 
it  was  a  very  complete  and  beautiful  impersonation. 

These  answers  appear  to  me  psychologically,  as 
well    as    artistically,  interesting,   and    worth    pre- 


serving. 


vv 


il! 


some  to  this 
Dg  and  the 
d;  and  the 
bween  their 
uiration  for 


lat  she  sung 
ielio ; "  and 
d. 

had  played 
ala,  in  Mas- 
.n  exquisite 
BFective  and 
i   worthless 


had  played 
the  part  of 
Florence." 
srmed),  and 
Tsonation, 

logically,  as 
worth    pre- 


ACTRESSBS. 


119. 


2V1 


Mrs.  Siddons,  when  looking  over  the  statues  in 
Lord  Lansdowne's  gallery^  told  him  that  one  mode 
of  expressing  intensity  of  feeling  was  suggested  to 
her  by  the  position  of  some  of  the  Egyptian  statues 
with  the  arras  close  down  at  the  sides  and  the  hands 
clenched.  This  is  curious,  for  the  attitude  in  the 
Egyptian  gods  is  intended  to  express  repose.  As  the 
expression  of  intense  passion  self-controlled,  it  might 
be  appropriate  to  some  characters  and  not  to  others. 
Rachel,  as  I  recollect,  uses  it  in  the  Phodre : — 
Madame  Rettich  uses  it  in  the  Medea.  It  would  not 
be  characteristic  in  Constance. 

120. 

On  a  certain  occasion  when  Fanny  Kemble  was 
reading  Cymbeline,  a  lady  next  to  me  remarked  that 
Imogen  ought  not  to  utter  the  words  "  Senseless 
linen  ! — happier  therein  than  I !  "  aloud,  and  to 
Pisanio, — that  it  detracted  from  the  strength  of  the 
feeling,  and  that  they  should  have  been  uttered  aside, 
and  in  a  low,  intense  whisper.  "  lachimo,"  she 
added,  "  might  easily  have  won  a  woman  who  could 
have  laid  her  heart  so  bare  to  a  mere  attendant !  " 

On  my  repeating  this  criticism  to  Fanny  Kemble, 
she  replied  just  as  I  had  anticipated :  "  Such  criticism 
is  the  mere  expression  of  the  natural  emotions  or 
character  of  the  critic.     She  would  Lave  spoken  the 


I 


H 


W  ' 


1  > 


IIP 


272 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


words  in  a  whisper;  /should  have  made  the  exclama- 
tion aloud.  If  th€re  had  been  a  thousand  people  by, 
I  should  not  have  oared  for  them — I  should  not  have 
been  conscious  of  their  presence.  I  should  have 
exclaimed  before  them  all,  *  Senseless  linen ! — happier 
therein  than  I ! '  " 

And  thus  the  artist  fell  into  the  same  mistake  of 
which  she  accused  her  critic — she  made  Imogen  utter 
the  words  aloud,  because  she  would  have  done  so  her- 
self. This  sort  of  subjective  criticism  in  both  was 
quite  feminine ;  but  the  question  was  not  how  either 
A.  B.  or  F.  K.  would  have  spoken  the  words,  but 
what  would  have  been  most  natural  in  such  a  woman 
as  Imogen? 

And  most  undoubtedly  the  first  criticism  was  as 
exquisitely  true  and  just  as  it  was  delicate.  Such  a 
woman  as  Imogen  would  not  have  uttered  those  words 
aloud.  She  would  have  uttered  them  in  a  whisper, 
and  turning  her  face  from  her  attendant.  With  such 
a  woman,  the  more  intense  the  passion,  the  more 
conscious  and  the  more  veiled  the  expression. 


|V'  I 


121. 

I  read  in  the  life  of  Garrick  that,  "about  1741, 
a  taste  for  Shakespeare  had  lately  been  revived  by 
the  encouragement  of  some  distinguished  persons  of 
taste  of  both  sexes ;  but  more  especially  bj  the  ladies 
who  formed  themselves  into  a  society,  called  the 
'  Shakespeare  Club.'  "     There  exists  a  Shakespeare 


3  exclama- 
people  by, 
d  Dot  have 
ould  have 
! — happier 

nistake  of 
logen  utter 
one  so  her- 
1  both  was 
how  either 
ivords,  but 
h  a  woman 

sm  was  as 
Such  a 
lose  words 
a  whisper, 
With  such 
the  more 
on. 


MARIA    MADDALENA. 


2'73 


)Out  1741, 
revived  by 
persons  of 
the  ladies 
called  the 
lakespeare 


Society  at  this  present  time,  but  I  do  not  know  that 
any  ladies  are  members  of  it,  or  allowed  to  be  so 

122. 

The  "Maria  Maddalena"  of  Friedrich  Hebbel 
is  a  domestic  tragedy.  It  represents  the  position  of 
a  young  girl  in  the  lower  classes  of  society — a  cha- 
racter of  quiet  goodness  and  feeling,  in  a  position  the 
most  usual,  circumstances  the  most  common-place. 
The  representation  is  from  the  life,  and  set  forth  with 
a  truth  which  in  its  naked  simplicity,  almost  hard- 
ness, becomes  most  tragic  and  terrible.  Around  this 
girl,  portrayed  with  consummate  delicacy,  is  a  group 
of  men.  First  her  father,  an  honest  artisan,  coarse, 
harsh,  despotic.  Then  a  light-minded,  good-natured, 
dissipated  brother,  and  two  suitors.  All  these  love 
her  according  to  their  masculine  individuality.  To 
the  men  of  her  own  family  she  is  as  a  part  of  the 
furniture — something  they  are  accustomed  to  see — 
necessary  to  the  daily  well-being  of  the  house,  with- 
out whom  the  fire  would  not  be  on  the  hearth,  nor 
the  soup  on  the  table;  and  they  are  proud  of  her 
charms  and  good  qualities  as  belonging  to  them.  By 
her  lovers  she  is  loved  as  an  object  they  desire  to 
possess — and  dispute  .vith  each  other.  But  no  one 
of  all  these  thinks  of  her — of  what  she  thinks,  feels, 
desires,  suffers,  is,  or  may  be.  Kor  does  she  seem  to 
think  of  it  herself,  ui  til  the  storm  falls  upon  her, 
enwraps  her,  overwhelms  her.     Then  she  stands  in 

1  .'td 


214 


NOTES   ON    ART. 


the  midst  of  the  beings  around  her,  and  who  are  one 
and  all  in  a  kind  of  external  relation  to  her,  com- 
pletely alone.  In  her  grief,  in  her  misery,  in  her 
amazement,  her  perplexity,  her  terror,  there  is  no 
one  to  take  thought  for  her,  no  one  to  help,  no  one  to 
sympathise.  Each  is  self-occupied,  self-satisfied. 
And  so  she  sinks  down  and  perishes,  and  they  stand 
wondering  at  what  they  had  not  the  sense  to  see, 
wringing  their  hands  over  the  irremediable.  It  is 
the  Lucy  Ashton  of  vulgar  life. 

The  manners  and  characters  of  this  play  are 
essentially  German ;  but  the  stuf- — the  ma  erial  of 
the  piece — the  relative  position  of  the  peisonages, 
might  be  true  of  any  place  in  this  Christian,  civilised 
Europe.  The  whole  is  wonderfully,  painfully  na- 
tural, and  strikes  home  to  the  heart,  like  Hood's 
"  Bridge  of  Sighs."  It  was  a  surprise  to  me  that 
such  a  piece  should  have  been  acted,  and  with 
applause,  at  the  Court  Theatre  at  Vienna;  but  I 
believe  it  has  not  been  given  since  1S49. 

123. 
Here  is  a  very  good  aui-lysis  of  the  artistic  na- 
ture :  "  II  ressent  une  veritable  emotion,  mais  il 
s'arrange  pour  la  montrer.  II  fait  un  peu  ce  que 
faisait  cet  acteur  de  I'antiquite  qui,  venant  de  per- 
dre  son  fils  unique  et  jouant  quelque  temps  apres  le 
role  d'Electre  embrassant  I'urne  d'Oreste,  prit  entre 
ses  mains  I'urne  qui  contenait  les  cendres  de  son 


1 


ho  are  one 
her,  com- 
iry,  in  her 
here  is  no 
),  no  one  to 
If-satisfied. 
they  stand 
ase  to  see, 
ble.     It  is 

3  play  are 
na  erial  of 
peisonages, 
m,  civilised 
iniuUy  na- 
ke  Hood's 
to  me  that 
and  with 
[ina;  but  I 


artistic  na- 
,  mais  il 
pen  ce  que 
mt  de  per- 
ips  apres  le 
,  prit  entre 
res  de  son 


FEMALE    CRITICISM. 


2l5 


enfant,  et  joua  sa  propre  douleur,  dit  Aulus  Gellius, 
au  lieu  de  jouer  celle  de  son  r61e,  Ce  melange  do 
I'emotion  naturelle  et  de  I'^motion  theatrale  est  plus 
frequent,  qu'on  ne  croit,  surtout  a  certaines  epoques 
quand  le  rafl&nement  de  I'Edueation  fait  que  Thomme 
ne  sent  pas  seulemcnt  ses  emotions,  mais  qu'il  sent 
aussi  I'effet  qu'elles  peuvent  produire.  Beaucoup  de 
gens  alors,  sont  naturellement  comedicns;  c'est  d 
dire  qu'ils  donnent  un  role  a  leurs  passions :  ils  sentent 
en  dehors  au  lieu  de  sentir  en  dedans;  leurs  emo- 
tions sont  en  relief  slvl  lieu  d'etre  en  profondeur.^' — 
St.  Marc — Girardin. 

I  think  Margaret  Fuller  must  have  had  the  above 
passage  in  her  mind  when  she  worked  out  this  happy 
illustration  into  a  more  finished  form.  She  says : — 
"  The  difference  between  the  artistic  nature  and  the 
unartistic  nature  in  the  hour  of  emotion,  is  this :  in 
the  first  the  feeling  is  a  cameo,  in  the  last  an  intaglio. 
Raised  in  relief  and  shaped  out  of  the  heart  in  the 
first ;  cut  into  the  heart,  and  hardly  perceptible  till 
you  take  the  impression,  in  the  last." 

And  to  complete  this  fanciful  and  beautiful  Lna- 
logy,  we  might  add,  that  because  tlic  artistic  nature 
is  demonstrative,  it  is  sometimes  thought  insincere; 
and  insincere  it  is  where  the  form  is  hollow  in 
proportion  as  it  is  cast  outward,  as  in  the  casts 
and  electrotype  copies  of  the  solid  sculpture.  And 
because  the  unartistic  nature  is  undemonstrative, 
.it  is  sometimes  thought  cold,  unreal;   for  of  this 


i 


216 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


also  there  are  imitations ;  and  in  passing  the  touch 
over  certain  intaglios,  we  feel  by  contact  that  they 
are  not  so  deep  as  we  supposed.  ■-"- 

God  defend  us  from  both !  from  the  hoUowness 
that  imitates  solidity,  and  the  shallowness  that 
imitates  depth  1 

124. 

Goethe  said  of  some  woman,  "  She  knew  some- 
thing of  devotion  and  love,  but  of  the  pure  admira- 
tion for  a  glorious  piece  of  man's  handiwork — of  a 
mere  sympathetic  veneration  for  the  creation  of  the 
human  intellect — she  could  form  no  idea. 

This  may  have  been  true  of  the  individual  woman 
referred  to ;  but  that  female  critics  look  for  some- 
thing in  a  production  of  art  beyond  the  mere  handi- 
work, and  that  "  our  sympathetic  veneration  for  a 
creation  of  human  intellect,"  is  often  dependent  on 
our  moral  associations,  is  not  a  reproach  to  us.  Nor, 
if  I  may  presume  to  say  so,  does  it  lessen  the  value 
of  our  criticism,  where  it  can  be  referred  to  prin- 
ciples. Women  have  a  sort  of  unconscious  logic  in 
these  matters. 

125. 

"  When  fiction,"  says  Sir  James  Macintosh,  '*  re- 
presents a  degree  of  ideal  excellence  superior  to  ?- 
virtue  which  is  observed  in  real  life,  the  eflFect  is 


p  I 


the  touch 
that  they 

hollowness 
moss    that 


I  ■\ 


new  some- 
iro  admira- 
rork — of  a 
tion  of  the 

ual  woman 
for  some- 
ere  handi- 
tion  for  a 
endent  on 
\  us.  Nor, 
the  value 
d  to  prin- 
18  logic  in 


Qtosh,  '*  re- 
ior  to  ?'■ 
B  effect  is 


DANTE — SHAKESPEARE. 


211 


perfectly  analogous  to  that  of  a  model  of  ideal  beauty 
in  the  fine  arts."  '      '•        -     ^ 

That  is  to  say — As  the  Apollo  exalts  our  idea  of 
possible  beauty,  in  form,  so  the  moral  ideal  of  man 
or  woman  exalts  our  idea  of  possible  virtue,  provided 
it  be  consistent  as  a  whole.  If  we  gave  the  Apollo  a 
god-like  head  and  face  and  left  a  part  of  his  frame 
below  perfection,  the  elevating  effect  of  the  whole 
would  be  immediately  destroyed,  though  the  figure 
might  be  more  according  to  the  standard  of  actual 
nature. 

126.  V 

"  In  Dante,  as  in  Shakespeare,  every  man  selects 
by  instinct  that  which  assimilates  with  the  course  of 
his  own  previous  occupations  and  interests."  {Men- 
vale.)  True,  not  of  Dante  and  Shakespeare  only, 
but  of  all  books  worth  reading ;  and  not  merely  of 
books  and  authors,  but  of  all  productions  of  mind  in 
whatever  form  which  speak  to  mind ;  all  works  of  art, 
from  which  we  imbibe,  as  it  were,  what  is  sympa- 
thetic with  our  individuality.  The  more  universal  the 
sympathies  of  the  writer  or  the  artist,  the  more  of 
such  individualities  will  be  included  in  his  domain  of 
power. 

127. 

The  distinction  so  cleverly  and  beautifully  drawn 
by  the  Germans  (by  Lessing  first  I  believe)  between 
"  Bildende  "  and  "  Redende  Kunst "  is  not  to  be  ren- 


278 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


dered  into  English  without  a  lengthy  paraphrase. 
It  places  in  immediate  oontradistinctiou  the  art  which 
is  evolved  in  words^  and  the  art  which  is  evolved  in 
forms.  ...1       ■■'  -f      ,    ■  .  ^^K.-,:u^-: 

'•■i ''-" ■■  128.  ,'v_   ■  -    '.   t 

Venus,  or  rather  the  Greek  Aphrodite,  in  the  sub- 
lime fragment  of  Eschylus  (the  Danaides)  is  a  grand, 
severe,  and  pure  conception  ;  the  principle  eternal  of 
beauty,  of  love,  and  of  fecundity — or  the  law  of  the 
continuation  of  being  through  beauty  and  through 
love.  Such  a  conception  is  no  more  like  the  Ovidean 
Roman  Venus  than  the  Venus  of  Milo  is  like  the 
Venus  de  Medicis. 

129. 

In  the  Greek  tragedy,  love  figures  as  one  of  the 
laws  of  nature — not  as  a  power,  or  a  passion  ;  these 
are  the  aspects  given  to  it  by  the  Christian  imagi- 
nation. 

Yet  this  higher  idea  of  love  did  exist  among  the 
ancients — only  we  must  not  seek  it  in  their  poetry, 
but  in  their  philosophy.  Thus  we  find  it  in  Plato, 
set  forth  as  a  beautiful  philosophical  theory ;  not  as 
a  passion,  to  influence  life,  nor  as  a  poetic  feeling,  to 
adorn  and  exalt  it.  Nor  do  we  moderns  owe  this  idea 
of  a  mystic,  elevated,  and  elevating  love  to  the  Greek 
philosophy.  I  rather  agree  with  those  who  trace  it 
to  the  mingling  of  Christianity  with  the  manners  of 
the  old  Germans,  and  their  (almost)  superstitious 


WILKIE*B    LIFE    AND    LETTERS. 


279 


iraphraHe. 
art  whiok 
jvolvcd  in 


a  the  sub- 
3  a  grand, 
eternal  of 
aw  of  the 
I  through 
B  Ovidcan 
i  like  the 


no  of  tho 
on ;  thoso 
an  imagi- 

imong  the 
ir  poetry, 
in  Plato, 
^;  not  as 
feeling,  to 
i  this  idea 
the  Greek 
)  trace  it 
mners  of 
erstitious 


i 


I 


reverence  for  womanhood.  In  the  Middle  Ages, 
where  morals  were  most  depraved,  and  women  most 
helpless  and  oppressed,  there  still  survived  the  theory 
formed  out  of  the  combination  of  the  Christian  spirit, 
and  the  Germanic  customs;  and  when  in  the  15th 
century  Plato  became  the  fashion,  then  the  theory 
became  a  science,  and  what  had  been  religion  became 
again  philosophy.  This  sort  of  speculative  love  be- 
came to  real  love  what  theology  became  to  religion; 
it  was  a  thesis  to  be  talked  about  and  argued  in  uni- 
versities, sung  in  sonnets,  set  forth  in  art ;  and  so 
being  kept  as  far  as  possible  from  all  bearings  on 
our  moral  life,  it  ceased  to  find  consideration  either 
as  a  primaeval  law  of  God,  or  as  a  moral  motive 
influencing  the  duties  and  habits  of  our  existence  : 
and  thus  we  find  the  social  code  in  regard  to  it 
diverging  into  all  the  vagaries  of  celibacy  on  one 
hand,  and  all  the  vilenesses  of  profligacy  on  tho 
other. 

180. 

Wilkie's  "  Life  and  Letters  "  have  not  helped  me 
much.  His  opinions  and  criticisms  on  his  own  art 
are  sensible,  not  suggestive.  I  find,  however,  one  or 
two  passages  strongly  illustrative  of  the  value  of  truth 
as  a  principle  in  art,  and  the  sort  of  vitality  it  gives 
to  scenery  and  objects. 

He  writes,  when  travelling  in  Holland,  to  his 
friend,  Sir  George  Beaumont; — 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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280 


NOTES   ON   ART. 


"  One  of  the  first  circumstances  that  struck  me 
wherever  I  went  was  what  you  had  prepared  me  for ; 
the  resemblance  that  everything  bore  to  the  Dutch 
and  Flemish  pictures.  On  leaving  Ostend,  not  only 
the  people,  houses,  trees,  but  whole  tracts  of  country 
reminded  me  of  Teniers,  and  on  gettiug  further  into 
the  country  this  was  only  relieved  by  the  pictures 
of  Bubens  and  Wouvermans,  or  some  other  masters 
taking  his  place. 

'  ^'  I  thought  I  could  trace  the  particular  districts 
in  Holland  where  Ostadc,  Cuyp,  and  Bembrandt  had 
studied,  and  could  almost  fancy  the  spot  where  the 
pictures  of  other  masters  had  been  painted.  Indeed 
nothing  seemed  new  to  me  in  the  whole  country ;  and 
what  one  could  not  help  wondering  at,  was,  that  these 
old  masters  should  have  been  able  to  draw  the  ma- 
terials  of  so  beautiful  a  variety  of  art,  from  so  con- 
tracted and  monotonous  a  theme." 

Their  variety  arose  out  of  their  truthfulness.  I 
had  the  same  feeling  when  travelling  in  Holland  and 
Belgium.  It  was  to  me  a  perpetual  succession  of 
reminiscences,  and  so  it  has  been  with  others.  Bubens 
and  Bembrandt  (as  landscape  painters)  —  Cuyp, 
Hobbima,  were  continually  in  my  mind ;  occasionally 
the  yet  more  poetical  Buysdaal ;  but  who  ever  thinks 
of  Wouvermans,  or  Bergham,  or  Karel  du  Jardin, 
as  national  or  natural  painters  ?  their  scenery  is  all 
got  up  like  the  scenery  in  a  ballet,  and  I  can  con- 


w 


TRUTH    IN    AKT. 


281 


bruok  me 
1  me  for ; 
he  Dutch 

not  only 
f  country 
rther  into 

pictures 
r  masters 

>  districts 
'andt  had 
rhere  the 
Indeed 
itry;  and 
hat  these 
the  ma* 
n  so  con- 

Iness.  I 
land  and 
ession  of 
Rubens 
'•  Cuyp, 
asionally 
cr  thinks 
I  Jardin, 
ery  is  all 
can  con< 


oeive  nothing  more  tiresome  than  a  room  full  of  their 
pictures,  elegant  as  they  are. 

181. 

Again,  writing  from  Jerusalem,  Wilkie  says, 
"  Nothing  here  requires  revolution  in  our  opinions  of 
the  finest  works  of  art :  with  all  their  discrepancies 
of  detail,  they  are  yet  constantly  recalled  by  what  is 
here  before  us.  The  back-ground  of  the  Heliodorus 
of  Raphael  is  a  Syrian  building ;  the  figures  in  the 
Lazarus  of  Sebastian  del  Piombo  are  a  Syrian  people ; 
and  the  indescribable  tone  of  Rembrandt  is  brought 
to  mind  at  every  turn,  whether  in  the  street,  the 
Synagogue,  or  the  Sepulchre."  And  again :  ^'  The 
painter  we  are  always  referring  to,  as  one  who  has 
most  truly  given  the  eastern  people,  is  Rembrandt." 

He  partly  contradicts  this  afterwards,  but  says 
that  Venetian  art  reminds  him  of  Syria.  Now,  the 
Venetians  were  in  constant  communication  with  the 
East;  all  their  art  has  a  tinge  of  orientalism.  As 
to  Rembrandt,  he  must  have  been  in  familiar  inter- 
course with  the  Jew  merchants  and  Jewish  families 
settled  in  the  Dutch  commercial  towns ;  he  painted 
them  frequently  as  portraits,  and  they  perpetually 
appear  in  his  compositions.  ^       .,   .    ..> 

182.  ;         ,;^ 

In  the  following  passage  Wilkie  seems  uncon- 
sciously to  have  anticipated  the  invention  (or  rather 


\^ 


282 


NOTES    ON   ART. 


n 


X 


the  discovery)  of  the  Daguerreotype,  and  some  of  its 
results.  He  says : — ''  If  by  an  operation  of  mecha- 
nism, animated  nature  could  be  copied  with  the  accu- 
racy of  a  cast  in  plaster,  a  tracing  on  a  wall,  or  a  re- 
flection in  a  glass,  without  modification,  and  with- 
out the  proprieties  and  graces  of  art,  all  that  utility 
could  desire  would  be  perfectly  attained,  but  it  would 
be  at  the  expense  of  almost  every  quality  which 
renders  art  delightful." 

One  reason  why  the  Daguerreotype  portraits  are 
in  general  so  unsatisfactory  may  be  traced  to  a  natu- 
ral law,  though  I  have  not  heard  it  suggested.  It  is 
this :  every  object  that  we  behold  we  see  not  with 
the  eye  only,  but  with  the  soul ;  and  this  is  especially 
true  of  the  human  countenance,  which  in  so  far  as  it 
is  the  expression  of  mind  we  see  through  the  medium 
of  our  own  individual  mind.  Thus  a  portrait  is 
satisfactory  in  so  far  as  the  painter  has  sympathy 
with  his  subject,  and  delightful  to  us  in  proportion 
as  the  resemblance  reflected  through  his  sympathies 
is  in  accordance  with  our  own.  Now  in  the  Daguerreo- 
type there  is  no  such  medium,  and  the  face  comes 
before  us  without  passing  through  the  human  mind 
and  brain  to  our  apprehension.  This  may  be  the 
reason  why  a  Daguerreotype,  however  beautiful  and 
accurate,  is  seldom  satisfactory  or  agreeable,  and  that 
while  we  acknowledge  its  truth  as  to  fact,  it  always 
leaves  something  for  the  sympathies  to  desire. 


I" 

ome  of  its 
of  mecha- 
1  the  aocu- 
bU,  or  a  re- 
and  with- 
;hat  utility 
it  it  would 
lity  which 

»rtraits  are 
to  a  natu- 
ted.  It  is 
)  not  with 
3  especially 
so  far  as  it 
he  medium 
portrait  is 
I  sympathy 
proportion 
sympathies 
Daguerreo- 
face  comes 
iman  mind 
nay  be  the 
mtiful  and 
^e,  and  that 
t,  it  always 
sire. 


AN   ALTAR  PIEOS. 


188. 


283 


He  says,  "  One  thing  alone  seems  common  in  all 
the  stages  of  early  art ;  the  desire  of  making  all  other 
excellences  tributary  to  the  expression  of  thought 
and  sentiment." 

The  early  painters  had  no  other  excellences  except 
those  of  thought  and  expression;  therefore  could 
not  sacrifice  what  they  did  not  possess.  They  drew 
incorrectly,  coloured  ineffectively,  and  were  ignorant 
of  perspective. 

184. 

When  at  Dusseldorf,  I  found  the  President  of 
the  Academy,  Wilhelm  Schadow,  employed  on  a 
church  picture  in  three  compartments,  Paradise  in 
the  centre ;  on  the  right  side,  Purgatory ;  on  the  left 
side,  Hell.  He  explained  to  me  that  he  had  not 
attempted  to  paint  the  interior  of  Paradise  as  the 
sojourn  of  the  blessed,  because  he  could  imagine  no 
kind  of  occupation  or  delight  which,  prolonged  to 
eternity,  would  not  be  wearisome.  He  had  therefore 
represented  the  exterior  of  Paradise,  where  Christ, 
standing  on  the  threshold  with  outstretched  arms, 
receives«and  welcomes  those  who  enter.  (This  was 
better  and  in  finer  taste  than  the  more  common  alle- 
gory of  St.  Peter  and  his  keys.)  On  one  side  of  the 
door,  the  Virgin  Mary  and  a  group  of  guardian  angels 
encourage  those  who  approach.     Among  these  we 


;;  1 

;;  I 

'  :i  i 

lii':  ! 


Wf-' 


284 


W 


NOTES   ON   ART. 


0 


distinguish  a  martyr  who  has  died  for  the  truth,  and 
a  warrior  who  has  fought  for  it.  A  care-worn,  peni- 
tent mother  is  presented  by  her  innocent  daughter. 
Those  who  were  "  in  the  world  and  the  world  knew 
them  not,"  are  here  acknowledged — and  eyes  dim 
with  weeping,  and  heads  bowed  with  shame,  are  here 
uplifted,  and  bright  with  the  rapturous  gleam  which 
shone  through  the  portals  of  Paradise. 

The  idea  of  Purgatory,  he  told  me,  was  suggested 
by  a  vision  or  dream  related  by  St.  Catherine  of 
Genoa,  in  which  she  beheld  a  great  number  of  men 
and  women  shut  up  in  a  dark  cavern;  angels  de- 
scending from  heaven,  liberate  them  from  time  to 
time,  and  they  are  borne  away  one  after  another 
from  darkness,  pain,  and  penance,  into  life  and  light 
— again  to  behold  the  face  of  their  Maker — recon- 
ciled and  healed.  In  his  picture,  Schadow  has  re- 
presented two  angels  bearing  away  a  liberated  soul. 
Below  in  the  fore- ground  groups  of  sinners  are  wait- 
ing, sadly,  humbly,  but  not  unhopefuUy,  the  term  of 
their  bitter  penance.  Among  these  he  had  placed  a 
group  of  artists  and  poets  who,  led  away  by  tempta- 
tion, had  abused  their  glorious  gifts  to  wicked  or 
worldly  purposes ; — Titian,  Ariosto,  and,  rather  to  my 
surprise,  the  beautiful,  lamenting  spirit  oft  Byron. 
Then,  what  was  curious  enough,  as  types  of  ambition. 
Lady  Macbeth  and  her  husband,  who,  it  seems,  were 
to  be  ultimately  saved,  I  do  not  know  why — ^unless 
for  the  love  of  Shakespeare. 


w 


AN    ALTAR   PIECE. 


285 


truth,  and 
worn,  peni- 
t  daughter, 
vorld  knew 
[  eyes  dim 
le,  are  here 
learn  which 

s  suggested 
atherine  of 
iber  of  men 

angels  de- 
om  time  to 
ber  another 
'e  and  light 
ker — recon- 
iow  has  re- 
irated  soul, 
rs  are  wait- 
the  term  of 
Eld  placed  a 

by  tempta- 

wicked  or 

ather  to  my 

oi  Byron. 

f  ambition, 
seems,  were 

hy — ^unless 


Hell,  like  all  the  hells  I  ever  saw,  was  a  failure. 
There  was  the  usual  amount  of  fire  and  flames,  drag- 
ons and  serpents,  ghastly,  despairing  spirits,  but 
nothing  of  original  or  powerful  conception.  When 
I  looked  in  Schadow's  face,  so  beautiful  with  bene- 
volence, I  wondered  how  he  could — but  in  truth  he 
could  not — realise  to  himself  the  idea  of  a  hell ;  all 
the  materials  he  had  used  were  borrowed  and  com- 
monplace. 

But  among  his  cartoons  for  pictures  already 
painted,  there  was  one  charming  idea  of  quite  a  dif- 
ferent kind.  It  was  for  an  altar,  and  he  called  it 
"The  Fountain  of  Life."  Above,  the  sacrificed 
Eedcemcr  lies  extended  in  his  mother's  arms.  The 
pure  abundant  Waters  of  Salvation,  gushing  from 
the  rock  beneath  their  feet,  are  received  into  a  great 
cistern.  Saints,  martyrs,  teachers  of  the  truth,  are 
standing  round,  drinking  or  filling  their  vases,  which 
they  present  to  each  other.  From  the  cistern  flows 
a  stream,  at  which  a  family  of  poor  peasants  are 
drinking  with  humble,  joyful  looks;  and  as  the 
stream  divides  and  flows  away  through  flowery  mea- 
dows, little  sportive  children  stoop  to  drink  of  it, 
scooping  up  the  water  in  their  tiny  hands,  or  sipping 
it  with  their  rosy  smiling  lips.  A  beautiful  and 
significant  allegory  beautifully  expressed,  and  as 
intelligible  to  the  people  as  any  in  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress." 


286 


W 


NOTES   017   ART. 


(» 


186. 


Haydon  discussed  ''  High  Art  *'  as  if  it  depended 
solely  on  the  knowledge  and  the  appreciation  of 
form.  In  this  lay  his  great  mistake.  Form  is  but 
the  yehicle  of  the  highest  art. 

186. 

Southey  says  that  the  Franciscan  Order  "ex- 
cluded all  art,  all  science ; — no  pictures  might  pro- 
fane their  churches.  This  is  a  most  extraordinary 
instance  of  ignorance  in  a  man  of  Southey's  universal 
learning.  Did  he  forget  Friar  Bacon  ?  had  he  not 
heard  of  that  museum  of  divine  pictures,  the  Fran- 
ciscan church  and  convent  at  Assisi?  And  that 
some  of  the  greatest  mathematicians,  architects,  mo- 
saic workers,  carvers,  and  painters,  of  the   13th  and 

14th  centuries  were  Franciscan  friars  ? 

t5 


IS*?. 

Wordsworth's  remark  on  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
as  a  painter,  that "  he  lived  too  much  for  the  age  and 
the  people  among  whom  he  lived,"  is  hardly  just ;  as 
a  portrait-painter  he  could  not  well  do  otherwise ;  his 
profession  was  to  represent  the  people  among  whom 
he  lived.  An  artist  who  takes  the  higher,  the  crea- 
tive and  imaginative  walks  of  art,  and  who  thinks  he 
can,  at  the  same  time,  live  for  and  with  the  age,  and 
for  the  passing  and  clashing  interests  of  the  world, 


t  depended 
eolation  of 
orm  is  but 


)rder  "ex- 
might  pro- 
braordinary 
's  uniyersal 
had  he  not 
f  the  Fran- 
And  that 
iiitects,  mo- 
I   13th  and 


k  Reynolds 
)he  age  and 
llyjust;  as 
lerwise;  his 
Qong  whom 
r,  the  crea- 
0  thinks  he 
be  age,  and 
the  world, 


ARTI8T-LIPE. 


287 


and  the  frivolities  pf  society,  does  so  at  a  great  risk ; 
there  must  be  perilous  discord  between  the  inner 
and  the  outer  life — such  discord  as  wears  and  irri- 
tates the  whole  physical  and  moral  being.  Where 
the  original  material  of  the  character  is  not  strong, 
the  artistic  genius  will  be  gradually  enfeebled  and 
conventionalised,  through  flattery,  through  sympathy, 
through  misuse.  If  the  material  be  strong,  the 
result  may  perhaps  be  worse;  the  genius  may  be 
demoralised  and  the  mind  lose  its  balance.  I  have 
seen  in  my  time  instances  of  both. 

188. 

"  The  man,"  says  Coleridge,  "  who  reads  a  work 
meant  for  immediate  effect  on  one  age,  with  the 
notions  and  feelings  of  another,  may  be  a  refined 
gentleman  but  a  very  sorry  critic." 

This  is  especially  true  with  regard  to  art :  but 
Coleridge  should  have  put  in  the  word,  onlt/y  ("  only 
the  notions  and  feelings  of  another  age,")  kv  a 
very  great  pleasure  lies  in  the  power  of  throwing 
ourselves  into  the  sentiments  and  notions  of  one 
age,  while  feeling  with  them,  and  reflecting  upon 
them  with  the  riper  critical  experience  which  be- 
longs to  another  age. 

189. 
A  good  taste  in  art  feels  the  presence  or  the 
absence  of  merit ;  a  Just  taste  discriminates  the  de- 


i 


288 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


w 


II 


gree, — ^the  poco-piii  and  the  poco-meno.  A  good 
taste  rejects  faults ;  a  just  taste  selects  excellenoes. 
A  good  taste  is  often  unconscious ;  a  just  taste  is 
always  conscious.  A  good  taste  may  be  lowered  or 
spoilt ;  Ajust  taste  can  only  go  on  refining  more  and 
more. 

14a 

Artists  are  interesting  to  me  as  men.  Their  work 
as  the  product  of  mind,  should  lead  us  to  a  know- 
ledge of  their  own  being ;  else,  as  I  have  often  said 
and  written,  our  admiration  of  art  is  a  species  of 
atheism.  To  forget  the  soul  in  its  highest  manifes- 
tation is  like  forgetting  God  in  his  creation. 


141. 


WM: 


"  Les  images  peints  du  corps  humain,  dans  les 
ures  oi\  domine  par  trop  le  savoir  anatomique,  en 
revelant  trop  clairement  a  I'homme  les  secrets  de  sa 
structure,  lui  en  d^couvrent  aussi  par  trop  ce  qu'on 
pourrait  appeler  le  point  de  vue  materiel,  ou  si  I'on 
veut  amwia^." 

This  is  the  fault  of  Michal-Angelo ;  ypt  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  his  very  materialism,  so 
grand,  and  so  peculiar  in  character,  may  have  arisen 
out  of  his  profound  religious  feeling,  his  stern 
morality,  his  lofty  conceptions  of  our  mortal,  as  well 
as  immortal  destinies.  He  appears  to  have  beheld 
the  human  form  only  in  a  pure  and  sublime  point  of 


\\ 


MATBRIALISM    IN    ART. 


289 


A  good 
szoellenoeB. 
ust  taste  is 
lowered  or 
g  more  and 


Their  work 

to  a  know- 

)  often  said 

species  of 

ist  manifes* 


•n. 


'^ 


in,  dans  les 
omique,  en 
crets  de  sa 
)p  ce  qu'on 
Ij  ou  si  Ton 

};^t  I  have 
rialism,  so 
have  arisen 
his  stern 
tal^  as  well 
lave  beheld 
ae  point  of 


view ;  not  as  the  animal  man,  but  as  the  habitation, 
fearfully  and  wondrously  constmcted,  for  the  spirit 
of  man, — 

**  The  ODtward  shape, 
And  unpollatfld  temple  of  the  mind.** 

This  is  the  reason  that  Miohal-Angelo's  materialism 
affects  us  so  differently  from  that  of  Rubens.  In 
the  first,  the  predominance  of  form  attains  almost  a 
moral  sublimity.  In  the  latter  the  predominance  of 
flesh  and  blood  is  debased  into  physical  grossness. 
Michal-Angelo  believed  in  the  resurrection  of  the 
BODY,  emphatically ;  and  in  his  Last  Judgment  the 
dead  rise  like  Titans,  strong  to  contend  and  mighty 
to  suffer.  It  is  the  apotheosis  of  form.  In  Rubens's 
picture  of  the  same  subject  (at  Munich)  the  bodily 
presence  of  resuscitated  life  is  revolting,  reminding 
us  of  the  text  of  St.  Paul — "  Flesh  and  blood  shall 
9iot  inherit  the  kingdom  of  God.  Both  pictures  are 
aesthetically  false,  but  artistically  miracles,  and 
should  thus  be  considered  and  appreciated. 

I  have  never  looked  on  those  awful  figures  in  the 
Medici  Chapel  without  thinking  what  stupendous 
intellects  must  inhabit  such  stupendous  forms — ter- 
rible in  their  quietude ;  but  they  are  supernatural, 
rather  than  divine. 

*'  Heidnische  Bnhe  und  Chrlstliche  Milde,  Bie  blelben  Dlr  fremde ; 
Alt-testamentisch  bist  Dn,  Zurnender,  wie  ist  Dein  Gott ! " 

John  Edward  Taylor,  in  his  profound  and  beau- 
13 


200 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


t\ 


I 

Li 


tiful  essay  "  Miohal- Anoelo,  a  Poet,"  says  truly 
that ''  Dante  worshipped  the  philosophy  of  religion, 
and  Miohal-Angelo  adored  the  philosophy  of  art." 
The  religion  of  the  one  and  the  art  of  the  other 
were  evolved  in  a  strange  combination  of  mysticism, 
materialism,  and  moral  grandeur.  The  two  men  were 
congenial  in  character  and  in  genius.  — 


A  FRAGMENT  ON  SOULPTUBE, 

AND    ON    OKBTAIN   OnABAOTERS    IN    HI8T0BT   AND     POZTBT     CONBIDSBIO 
AS   BVBJBOTS   Or   UOPKBN   ABT. 

1848. 

I  SHOULD  begin  by  admitting  the  position  laid  down 
by  Frederick  Schlegel,  that  art  and  nature  are  not 
identical.  *'  Men,"  he  says,  "  traduce  nature,  who 
falsely  give  her  the  epithet  of  artistic ;  "  for  though 
nature  comprehends  all  art,  art  cannot  comprehend 
all  nature.  Nature,  in  her  sources  of  pleasure  and 
contemplation  is  infinite;  and  art,  as  her  reflection 
in  human  works,  finite.  Nature  is  boundless  in  her 
powers,  exhaustless  in  her  variety;  the  powers  of 
art  and  its  capabilities  of  variety  in  production  are 
bounded  on  every  side.  Nature  herself,  the  infinite, 
has  circumscribed  the  bounds  of  finite  art ;  the  one 
is  the  divinity;  the  other  the  priestess.  And  if 
poetic  art  in  the  inte7'preting  of  nature  share  in  her 
infinitude,  yet  in  representing  nature  through  matet 
rial,  form,  and  coloyr,  she  i8,^-poh,  how  lipaited !  - 


A    FRAGMENT   OF   SCULPTURE. 


201 


',"  layB  truly 
ly  of  religion, 
aphy  of  art." 
of  the  other 
of  mysticism, 
I  two  men  were 


OKTBT     COOTIDIBKD 


ion  laid  down 
lature  are  not 
so  nature,  who 
! ;  "  for  though 
3t  comprehend 
f  pleasure  and 

her  reflection 
undless  in  her 
the  powers  of 
production  are 
»lf,  the  infinite, 
>e  art ;  the  one 
itess.  And  if 
e  share  in  her 

through  mate* 
w  limited  I  • 


If  each  of  the  forms  of  poetic  art  has  its  law  of 
limitation  as  determined  as  the  musical  scale,  nar- 
rowest  of  all  are  the  limitations  of  sculpture,  to 
which,  notwithstanding,  we  give  the  highest  place ; 
and  it  is  in  regard  to  sculpture,  we  find  most  fre- 
quently those  mistakes  which  arise  from  a  want  of 
knowledge  of  the  true  principles  of  art. 

Admitting,  then,  as  necessary  and  immutable,  the 
limitations  of  the  art  of  sculpture  as  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  material  in  giving  form  and  expression ; 
its  primal  laws  of  repose  and  simplicity ;  its  rejection 
of  the  complex  and  conventional ;  its  bounded  capa- 
bilities as  to  choice  of  subject ;  must  we  also  admit, 
with  some  of  the  most  celebrated  critics  of  art,  that 
there  is  but  one  style  of  sculpture,  the  Greek  1  And 
that  every  deviation  from  pure  Greek  art  must  be 
regarded  as  a  depravation  and  perversion  of  the 
powers  and  subjects  of  sculpture.  I  do  not  see  that 
this  follows.  ^  r       • 

It  is  absolute  that  Greek  art  reached  long  ago  the 
term  of  its  development.  In  so  far  as  regards  the 
principles  of  beauty  and  execution,  it  can  go  no  far- 
ther. We  may  stand  and  look  at  the  relics  of  the 
Parthenon  in  awe  and  in  despair ;  we  can  do  neither 
more,  nor  better.  But  we  have  not  done  with  Greek 
sculpture.  What  in  it  is  purely  idealj  is  eternal ; 
what  is  conventional,  is  in  accordance  with  the  primal 
conditions  of  all  imitative  art.     Therefore  though 


202 


NOTES   ON   ART. 


D* 


^I 


p. 
5v, 


V 


it  may  have  reached  the  point  at  which  develop- 
ment stops,  and  though  its  capability  of  adaptation 
be  limited  by  necessary  laws ;  still  its  all-beautiful, 
its  immortal  imagery  is  ever  near  us  and  around 
us;  still  ''doth  the  old  feeling  bring  back  the 
old  names,"  and  with  the  old  names,  the  forms ;  still, 
in  those  old  familiar  forms  we  contiiiue  to  clothe  all 
that  is  loveliest  in  visible  nature;  still,  in  all  our 
associations  with  Greek  art — 

"  Tis  Jupiter  •who  brings  whate'er  Is  great, 
And  Venus  who  brings  every  thing  that's  fair." 

That  the  supreme  beauty  of  Greek  art — that  the 
majestic  significance  of  the  classical  myths — will  ever 
be  to  the  educated  mind  and  eye  a^i  things  indifferent 
and  worn  out,  I  cannot  believe. 

But  on  the  other  hand  it  may  well  be  doubted 
whether  the  impersonation  of  the  Greek  allegories 
in  the  purest  forms  of  Greek  art  will  ever  give 
intense  pleasure  to  the  people,  or  ever  speak  home 
to  the  hearts  of  the  men  and  women  of  these  times. 
And  this  not  from  the  want  of  an  innate  taste  and 
capacity  in  the  minds  of  the  masses — not  because 
ignorance  has  "frozen  the  genial  current  in  their 
souls  " — not  merely  through  a  vulgar  preference  for 
mechanical  imitation  of  common  and  familiar  forms ; 
but  from  other  causes  not  transient — not  accidental. 
A  classical  education  is  not  now,  as  heretofore,  the 
only  education  given ;  and  through  an  honest  and 


liij' 


A    FRAQMENT   OF   SCULPTURE. 


ts93 


develop- 
adaptation 
l-beautiful, 
nd  around 

back  the 
rms;  still, 

clothe  all 
in  all  our 


-that  the 
—will  ever 
indifferent 

)e  doubted 

allegories 

ever  give 

peak  home 

hese  times. 

taste  and 

ot  because 

it  in  their 

iference  for 

liar  forms; 

accidental. 

itofore,  the 

lonest  and 


intense  sympathy  with  the  life  of  their  own  expe- 
rience, and  from  a  dislike  to  vicious  associations, 
though  clothed  in  classical  language  and  classical 
forms,  thence  is  it  that  the  people  have  turned  with  a 
sense  of  relief  from  gods  and  goddesses,  Ledas  and 
Antiopes,  to  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  groups  of 
charity,  and  young  ladies  in  the  character  of  Inno- 
cence,— harmless,  picturesque  inanities,  bearing  the 
same  relation  to  classical  sculpture  that  Watts's 
hymns  bear  to  Homer  and  Sor)hocles. 

Classical  attainments  of  any  kind  are  rare  in  our 
English  sculptors ;  therefore  it  is,  that  we  find  them 
often  quite  familiar  with  the  conventional  treatment 
and  outward  forms  of  the  usual  subjects  of  Greek 
art,  without  much  knowledge  of  the  original  poetical 
conception,  its  derivation,  or  its  significance ;  and 
equally  without  any  real  appreciation  of  the  idea  of 
which  the  form  is  but  the  vehicle.  Hence  they  do 
not  seem  to  be  aware  how  far  this  original  concep- 
tion is  capable  of  being  varied,  modified,  animated 
as  it  were,  with  an  infusion  of  fresh  life,  without 
deviating  from  its  essential  truth,  or  transgressing 
those  narrow  limits,  within  which  all  sculpture  must 
be  bounded  in  respect  to  action  and  attitude.  To 
express  character  within  these  limits  is  the  grand 
difficulty.  We  must  remember  that  too  much  value 
given  to  the  head  as  the  seat  of  mind,  too  much 
expression  given  to  the  features  as  the  exponents  of 


294 


NOTES    ON    ART 


w 


n 


character,  must  diminish  the  importance  of  those  parts 
of  the  form  on  which  sculpture  mainly  depends  for 
its  effect  on  the  imagination.  To  convey  the  idea 
of  a  complete  individuality  in  a  single  figure,  and 
under  these  restrictions,  is  the  problem  to  be  solved 
by  the  sculptor  who  aims  at  originality,  yet  feels  his 
aspirations  restrained  by  a  fine  taste  and  circumscribed 
by  certain  inevitable  associations. 

It  is  therefore  a  question  open  to  argument  and 
involving  considerations  of  infinite  delicacy  and  mo- 
ment, in  morals  and  in  art,  whether  the  old  Greek 
legends,  endued  as  they  are  with  an  imperishable 
vitality  derived  from  their  abstract  truth,  may  not 
be  susceptible  of  a  treatment  in  modern  art  analogous 
to  that  which  they  have  received  in  modern  poetry, 
where  the  significant  myth,  or  the  ideal  character, 
without  losing  its  classic  grace,  has  been  animated 
with  a  purer  sentiment,  and  developed  into  a  higher 
expressiveness.  Wordsworth's  Dion  and  Laodamia ; 
Shelley's  version  of  the  Hymn  to  Mercury ;  Goethe's 
Iphigenia;  Lord  Byron's  Prometheus ;  Keats's 
Hyperion;  Barry  Cornwall's  Proserpina;  are  in- 
stances of  what  I  mean  in  poetry.  To  do  the  same 
thing  in  art,  requires  that  our  sculptors  should  stand 
in  the  same  relation  to  Phidias  and  Praxiteles,  that 
our  greatest  poets  bear  to  Homer  or  Euripides ;  that 
they  should  be  themselves  poets  and  interpreters,  not 
mere  translators  and  imitators. 


A    FRAGMENT    OF   SCULPTUKU. 


295 


ihose  parts 
epends  for 
J  the  idea 


[gure, 


and 


be  solyed 
t  feels  his 
umscribed 

• '      ■      ? 

iiment  and 

;y  and  mo- 

Dld  Greek 

perishable 

,  may  not 

analogous 

srn  poetry, 

character, 

animated 

;o  a  higher 

Laodamia ; 

;  Goethe's 

;     Keats's 

;    are  in- 

)  the  same 

ould  stand 

iteles,  that 

Ides;  that 

reters,  not 


Further,  we  all  know,  that  there  is  often  a  neces- 
sity for  conveying  abstract  ideas  in  the  forms  of  art. 
We  have  then  recourse  to  allegi^y ;  yet  allegorical 
statues  are  generally  cold  and  conventional  and  ad- 
dressed  to  the  intellect  merely.  Now  there  are  occa- 
sions, in  which  an  abstract  quality  or  thought  is  far 
more  impressively  and  intelligibly  conveyed  by  an 
impersonation  than  by  a  personification.  I  mean, 
that  Aristides  might  express  the  idea  of  justice ; 
Penelope,  that  of  conjugal  faith  ;  Jonathan  and 
David  (or  Pylades  and  Orestes),  friendship ;  Bizpah, 
devotion  to  the  memory  of  the  dead ;  Iphigenia, 
the  voluntary  sacrifice  for  a  good  cause ;  and  so  of 
many  others ;  and  such  figures  would  have  this  ad- 
vantage, that  with  the  significance  of  a  symbol  they 
would  combine  all  the  powers  of  a  sympathetic 
reality. 


HELEN. 

I  HAVE  never  seen  any  statue  of  Helen,  ancient 
or  modern.  Treated  in  the  right  spirit,  I  can  hardly 
conceive  a  diviner  subject  for  a  sculptor.  It  would 
be  a  great  mistake  to  represent  the  Greek  Helen 
merely  as  a  beautiful  and  alluring  woman.  This,  at 
least,  is  not  the  Homeric  conception  of  the  character, 
which  has  a  wonderful  and  fascinating  individuality, 
requiring  the  utmost  delicacy  and  poetic  feeling  to 


296 


MOTES    ON    ART. 


ii 


il 


w 


comprehend,  and  rare  artistic  skill  to  realise.  The 
oft-told  story  of  the  Grecian  painter,  who,  to  create 
a  Helen,  assembled  Home  twenty  of  the  fairest  models 
he  could  find,  and  took  from  each  a  limb  or  a  feature, 
in  order  to  compose  from  their  separate  beauties  an 
ideal  of  perfection, — this  story,  if  it  were  true,  would 
only  prove  that  even  Zeuzis  could  make  a  great  mis- 
take. Such  a  combination  of  heterogeneous  elements 
would  be  psychologically  and  artistically  false,  and 
would  never  give  us  a  Helen. 

She  has  become  the  ideal  type  of  a  fatal,  faithless, 
dissolute  woman ;  but  according  to  the  Greek  myth, 
she  is  predestined^ — at  once  the  instrument  and  the 
victim  of  that  fiat  of  the  gods  which  had  long  before 
decreed  the  destruction  of  Troy,  and  her  to  be  the 
cause.  She  must  not  only  be  supremely  beautiful, — 
"  a  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall,  and  most 
divinely  fair ! " — but  as  the  off'spring  of  Zeus  (the 
title  by  which  she  is  so  often  designated  in  the  Iliad), 
as  the  sister  of  the  great  twin  demi-gods  Castor  and 
Pollux,  she  should  have  the  heroic  lineaments  proper 
to  her  Olympian  descent,  touched  with  a  pensive 
shade ;  for  she  laments  the  calamities  which  her  fatal 
charms  have  brought  on  all  who  have  loved  her,  all 
whom  she  has  loved : —  ' 


A 


"  Ah  t  had  I  died  ero  to  these  shores  I  fled, 
Falfio  to  m7  country  and  my  nuptial  bed  !*' 


She  shrinks  from  the  reproachful  glances  of  those 


w 


HBLEI7. 


207 


ise.  The 
,  to  create 
!st  models 
a  feature, 
eauties  an 
rue,  would 
great  mis- 
3  elements 
false,  and 

,  faithless, 
reek  myth, 
nt  and  the 
ong  before 
•  to  be  the 
eautiful, — 
and  most 
Zeus  (the 
the  Iliad), 
jastor  and 
nts  proper 
a  pensive 
1  her  fatal 
ed  her,  all 


3S  of  those 


whom  she  has  injured ;  and  yet,  as  it  is  finely  inti- 
mated, wherever  she  appears  her  resistless  loveliness 
vanquishes  every  heart,  and  changes  curses  into 
blessings.  Priam  treats  her  with  paternal  tenderness ; 
Hector  with  a  sort  of  chivalrous  respect. 
\- 

"If  some  proud  brother  eyed  me  with  disdain, 
:  Or  Bcomftil  sister  with  her  sweeping  train, 

Thy  gentle  accents  softened  all  my  pain ; 
"  Nor  was  it  e'er  my  fate  ftom  thee  to  find 

^/.  A  deed  ungentle  or  a  word  unkind."  >ft 

Helen,  standing  on  the  walls  of  Troy,  and  looking 
over  the  battle  plain,  where  the  heroes  of  her  for- 
feited  country,  her  kindred  and  her  friends,  are 
assembled  to  fight  and  bleed  for  her  sake,  brings 
before  us  an  image  full  of  melancholy  sweetness  as 
well  as  of  consummate  beauty.     Another  passage  in 
which  she  upbraids  Venus  as  the  cause  of  her  fault 
— not  as  a  mortal  might  humbly  expostulate  with 
an  immortal,  but  almost  on  terms  of  equality,  and 
even  with  bitterness, — is  yet  more  characteristic. 
"  For  what,"  she  asks,  tauntingly,  "  am  I  reserved  ? 
To  what  new  countries  am  I  destined  to  carry  war 
and  desolation  7     For  what  new  lover  must  I  break 
a  second  vow?    Let  me  go  hence!    and  if  Paris 
lament  my  absence,  let  Venus  console  him,  and  for 
his  sake  ascend  the  skies  no  more ! "     A  regretful 
pathos  should  mingle  with  her  conscious  beauty  and 
her  half-celestial  dignity ;  and,  to  render  her  truly, 
her  Greek  elegance  should  be  combined  with  a  deeper 


298 


NOTES   ON    ART. 


M.l; 


f^^i 


:  i 


and  more  complex  sentiment  than  Greek  art  has 
usually  sought  to  express. 

I  am  speaking  here  of  Homer's  Helen  —  the 
Helen  of  the  Iliad,  not  the  Helen  of  the  tragedians 
— not  the  Helen  who  for  two  thousand  years  has 
merely  served  ''  to  point  a  moral ; "  and  an  artist 
who  should  think  to  realise  the  true  Homeric  con- 
ception, should  beware  of  counterfeits,  for  such  are 
abroad.  "^         - 

There  is  a  wild  Greek  myth  that  it  was  not  the 
real  Helen,  but  the  phantom  of  Helen,  who  fled  with 
Paris,  and  who  caused  the  destruction  of  Troy  ;  while 
Helen  herself  was  leading,  like  Penelope,  a  pattern 
life  at  Memphis.  I  must  confess  I  prefer  the  proud 
humility,  the  pathetic  elegance  of  Homer's  Helen  to 
such  jugglery. 

It  may  flatter  the  pride  of  virtue,  or  it  may  move 
our  religious  sympathies,  to  look  on  the  forlorn  abase- 
ment of  the  Magdalene  as  the  emblem  of  penitence  ; 
but  there  are  associations  connected  with  Helen — 
"  sad  Helen,"  as  she  calls  herself,  and  as  I  conceive 
the  character, — which  have  a  deep  tragic  significance ; 
and  surely  there  are  localities  for  which  the  imper- 
sonation of  classical  art  would  be  better  fitted  than 
that  of  sacred  art." 

I  do  not  know  of  any  existing  statue  of  Helen. 
Nicctas  mentions  among  the  relics  of  ancient  art 
destroyed  when  Constantinople  was  sacked  by  the 
Latins  in  1202,  a  bronze  statue  of  Helen,  with  long 


l> 


PENELOPE. — ALOESTIS. 


209 


art  has 

len  —  the 
Tagedians 
years  has 
an  artist 
oaeric  con- 
r  such  are 

as  not  the 
0  fled  with 
•oy ;  while 
,  a  pattern 
the  proud 
s  Helen  to 

may  move 
lorn  abase- 
penitence ; 
h  Helen — 

I  conceive 
ignificance ; 

the  imper- 

fitted  than 

i  of  Helen, 
ancient  art 
ked  by  the 
I,  with  long 


hair  flowing  to  the  waist ;  and  there  is  mention  of  an 
Etruscan  figure  of  her,  with  wings  (expressive  of  her 
celestial  origin,  for  the  Etruscans  gave  all  their  gods 
and  demi-gods  wings) :  in  Muller  I  find  these  two 
only.  There  are  likewise  busts ;  and  the  story  of 
Helen,  and  the  various  events  of  her  life,  occur  per- 
petually on  the  antique  gems,  bas-reliefs,  and  painted 
vases.  The  most  frequent  subject  is  her  abduction 
by  Paris.  A  beautiful  subject  for  a  bas-relief,  and 
one  I  believe  not  yet  treated,  would  be  Helen  and 
Priam  mourning  over  the  lifeless  form  of  Hector ; 
yet  the  difficulty  of  preserving  the  simple  sculptural 
treatment,  and  at  the  same  time  discriminating  be- 
tween this  and  other  similar  funereal  groups,  would 
render  it  perhaps  a  better  subject  for  a  picture,  as 
admitting  then  of  such  scenery  and  accessories  as 
would  at  once  determine  the  signification. 


PENELOPE. 


ALCESTIS. 


.,  '■■''■'      ri. 


LAODAMIA. 


Statues  of  Penelope  and  Helen  might  stand  in 
beautiful  and  expressive  contrast ;  but  it  is  a  contrast 
which  no  profane  or  prosaic  hand  should  attempt  to 
realise.  Penelope  is  all  woman  in  her  tenderness 
and  her  truth ;  Helen,  half  a  goddess  in  the  midst 
of  error  and  remorse. 

Nor  is  Penelope  the  only  character  which  might 
stand  as  a  type  of  conjugal  fidelity  in  contrasted 
companionship  with  Helen :   Alcestis,  who  died  for 


800 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


v 


^ 


her  husband ;  or,  better  still,  Laodamia,  whose  in- 
tense loye  and  longing  recalled  hers  from  the  shades 
below,  are  susceptible  of  the  most  beautiful  sta- 
tuesque treatment ;  only  we  must  bear  in  mind  that 
the  leading  motif  in  the  Alcestis  is  duty^  in  the 
Laodamia,  hve. 

I  remember  a  bas-relief  in  the  Vatican,  which 
represents  Hermes  restoring  Protesilaus  to  his 
mourning  wife.  The  interview  was  granted  for  three 
hours  only ;  and  when  the  hero  was  taken  from  her  a 
second  time,  she  died  on  the  threshold  of  her  palace. 
This  is  a  frequent  and  appropriate  subject  for  sarco- 
phagi and  funereal  vases.  But  there  exists,  I  believe, 
no  single  statue  commemorative  of  the  wife's  passion- 
ate devotion. 

The  modern  sculptor  should  penetrate  his  fancy 
with  the  sentiment  of  Wordsworth's  Laodamia. 

While  the  pen  is  in  my  hand  I  may  remark  that 
two  of  the  stanzas  in  the  Laodamia  have  been  altered, 
and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  not  improved,  since  the  first 
edition.     Originally  the  poem  opened  thus  : 


"  with  sacrifice,  before  the  rising  morn 
Perfonn'd,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I  required ; 
And  In  thick  darkness,  amid  shades  forlorn, 
Him  of  the  infernal  Gods  have  I  desired :        ^  >  ' 
Celestial  pity  I  again  Implore ; 
Restore  him  to  my  sight— great  Jove,  restore!  *♦ 


4>ii  ■ 


Altered  thus,  and  comparatively  flat : — 

"  With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  mom 
Vows  have  I  made,  by  fhiitleas  hope  inspired ; 


lii' 


■*     LAODAMIA. 


801 


^hose  in- 
le  shades 
tiful  sta- 
lind  that 
y,  in  the 

Ein,  which 
}  to  his 
for  three 
rom  her  a 
er  palace, 
for  saroo- 
I  believe, 
s  passion- 

his  fancy 
mia. 

mark  that 
in  altered, 
>  the  first 

I        .  ?-• 


•^i     df^ 


:>tiiM 


And  from  the  Infbnud  Gods,  mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I  required : 
Celestial  pity  I  again  implore ; 
Bestore  him  to  my  sight— great  Joye,  restore ! " 

In  the  early  edition  the  last  stanza  bnt  one  stood 
thus : — 

*'  Ah  I  Judge  her  gently  who  so  deeply  loved  I 
Her  who,  in  reason's  spite,  yet  without  crime, 
Was  in  a  trance  of  passion  thus  removed ; 
Delivered  from  the  galling  yoke  of  time. 
And  these  frail  elements,— to  gather  flowers 
Of  blissAil  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers ! " 

In  the  later  editions  thus  altered,  and,  to  my 
taste,  spoiled : — 

"By  no  weak  pity  might  the  Gods  be  moved; 
She  who  thus  perlshM  not  without  the  crime 
Of  lovers  that  in  Season's  spite  have  loved. 
Was  doomed  to  wander  in  a  grosser  clime. 
Apart  from  happy  ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet 'mid  unfading  bowers." 

Altered,  probably,  because  Virgil  has  introduced 
the  shade  of  Laodamia  among  the  criminal  and  un- 
happy lovers, — an  instance  of  extraordinary  bad  taste 
in  the  Roman  poet;  whatever  may  have  been  her 
faults,  she  surely  deserved  to  be  placed  in  better 
company  than  Phaedra  and  Pasiphae.  Wordsworth's 
intuitive  feeling  and  taste  were  true  in  the  first 
instance,  and  he  might  have  trusted  to  them.  In 
my  own  copy  of  Wordsworth  I  have  been  careful  to 
mark  the  original  reading  in  justice  to  the  original 
Laodamia.        ..   ir^    -^  ^  if^^-.^..  ..^.^  ^. 


302 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


w 


HIPPOLYTUB. 


NE0PT0LEMU8. 


I 'I' 

i 


I  HAVE  never  met  with  a  statue,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern, of  Hippolytus;  the  finest  possible  ideal  of  a 
Greek  youth,  touched  with  some  individual  character- 
istics which  are  peculiarly  fitted  for  sculpture.  He 
is  a  hunter,  not  a  warrior ;  a  tamer  of  horses,  not  a 
combatant  with  spear  and  shield.  He  should  have 
the  slight,  agile  build  of  a  young  Apollo,  but  nothing 
of  the  God's  effeminacy ;  on  the  contrary,  there  should 
be  an  infusion  of  the  severe  beauty  of  his  Amazonian 
mother,  with  that  sedateness  and  modesty  which 
should  express  the  votary  and  companion  of  Diana ; 
while  as  the  fated  victim  of  Venus,  whom  he  had 
contiemned,  and  of  his  stepmother  Phaedra,  whom  he 
had  repulsed,  there  should  be  a  kind  of  melancholy 
in  his  averted  features.  A  hound  and  implements  of 
the  chase  would  be  the  propejr  accessories,  and  the 
figure  should  be  undraped,  or  nearly  so. 

A  sculptor  who  should  be  tempted  to  undertake 
this  fine,  and,  as  I  think,  untried  subject — at  least 
as  a  single  figure — must  begin  by  putting  Racine  out 
of  his  mind,  whose  "  Seigneur  Hippolyte "  makes 
sentimental  love  to  the  **Princesse  Aricie,"  and 
must  penetrate  his  fancy  with  the  conception  of 
Euripides. 

I  find  in  Schlegel's  "  Essais  litteraires,"  a  few 
lines  which  will  assist  the  fancy  of  the  artist,  in  rep- 
resenting the  person  and  character  of  Hippolytus. 


IP! 


HIPP0LTTU8. 


808 


or  mod- 
lal  of  a 
laraoter- 
re.     He 
>s,  Dot  a 
ild  have 
nothing 
0  should 
lazonian 
which 
Diana ; 
he  had 
'horn  he 
anoholy 
aents  of 
and  the 

dertake 
at  least 
nne  out 
makes 
i,"  and 
)ion  of 

a  few 
in  rep- 
bus. 


**  Quant  k  I'Hippolyte  d'Euripide,  11  a  une  teinte 
si  divine  que  pour  le  sentir  dignement  il  faut,  pour 
ainsi  dire,  6tre  initie  dans  les  mjst^res  de  la  beauts, 
avoir  respire  I'air  de  la  Grece.  Rappelez  vous  ce  que 
I'antiquit^  nous  a  transmiu  de  plus  accompli  parmi 
les  images  d'une  jeunesse  h^roique,  les  Diosoures  de 
Monte-Cavallo,  le  MeUagre  et  I'Apollon  du  Vati- 
can. Le  oaract^re  d'Hippoljte  occupe  dans  la 
poesie  k  peu  pres  la  m6me  place  que  ces  statues 
dans  la  sculpture."  "  On  pent  remarquer  dans  plu- 
sieurs  beaut^s  id6ales  de  Pantique  que  les  anciens 
voulant  or^er  une  image  perfeotionn^e  de  la  nature 
humaine  ont  fondu  les  nuances  du  caractdre  d'un 
sexe  aveo  celui  de  Tautre ;  que  Junon,  Pallas,  Diane, 
ont  une  majesty,  une  s^v^rite  mdle ;  qu'  Apollon, 
Mcrcure,  Bacchus,  au  contraire,  ont  quelque  chose 
de  la  grace  et  de  la  douceur  des  femmes.  De  m^me 
nous  voyons  dans  la  beauts  h^roi'que  et  vierge 
d'Hippoljte  I'image  de  sa  mere  I'Amazone  et  le 
reflet  de  Diane  dans  un  mortel.'' 

(The  last  lines  are  especially  remarkable,  and  are 
an  artistic  commentary  on  what  I  have  ventured  to 
touch  upon  ethically  at  page  78.) 

The  story  of  Hippolytus  is  to  be  found  in  bas- 
reliefs  and  gems ;  it  occurs  on  a  particularly  fine 
sarcophagus  now  preserved  in  the  cathedral  at 
Agrigentum,  of  which  there  is  a  cast  in  the  British 
Museum. 


I; 


804 


NOTIB   ON   ART. 


w 


U!il!l 


Under  the  heroic  and  clasBical  form,  Hippolytus 
conveys  the  same  idea  of  manly  chastity  and  self- 
control  which  in  sacred  art  would  be  suggested  by 
the  figure  of  Joseph. 

A  noble  companion  to  the  Hippolytus  would  be 
Neoptolemus,  the  son  of  Achilles.  He  is  the  young 
Greek  warrior,  strong  and  bold  and  brave;  a  fine 
ideal  type  of  generosity  and  truth.  The  conception, 
as  I  imagine  it,  should  be  taken  from  the  Philoctetes 
of  Sophocles,  where  Neoptolemus,  indignant  at  the 
craft  of  Ulysses,  discloses  the  trick  of  which  he  had 
been  made  the  unwilling  instrument,  and  restores  the 
fatal,  envenomed  arrows  to  Philoctetes.  The  cele- 
brated lines  in  the  Iliad  spoken  by  Achilles — 

*'  Who  dares  think  one  thing  and  another  tell 
My  soul  detests  him  as  the  gates  of  hell  I  '* 


li 
f 


should  give  the  leading  characteristic  motif  in  the 
figure  of  his  son.  There  should  be  something  of  re- 
morseful pity  in  the  very  youthful  features ;  the  form 
ought  to  be  heroically  treated,  that  is,  undraped,  and 
he  should  hold  the  arrows  in  his  hand. 

Neoptolemus,  as  the  savage  avenger  of  his  father's 
death,  slaying  the  grey  haired  Priam  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar,  and  carrying  off  Andromache,  is,  pi  course, 
quite  a  different  version  of  the  character.  He  then 
figures  as  Pyrrhus — 


"  The  ragged  PyiThus,  be  whose  sable  arms, 
Black  as  his  purpose,  did  the  night  resemble." 


IPHIOENIA. 


805 


lippoljtus 

and  self- 

gested  by 

would  be 
)he  youDg 
e;  a  fine 
onceptioD, 
biloctetes 
Qt  at  the 
oh  he  had 
stores  the 
The  cele- 


Hf  in  the 

ing  of  re- 

the  form 

Eiped,  and 

is  father's 

le  foot  of 

»f  course, 

He  then 


The  fine  moral  story  of  Neoptolemus  and  Philoo- 
tetes  is  figured  on  the  EtruRcan  vases.  Of  the 
young,  truth-telling,  Greek  hero  I  find  no  single 
statue. 

IPUIQENIA. 

I  HAVE  often  been  surprised  that  we  have  no 
statue  of  this  eminently  beautiful  subject.  We  have 
the  story  of  Iphigenia  constantly  repeated  in  gems 
and  bas-reliefs ;  the  most  celebrated  example  extant 
being  the  Medici  Vase.  But  no  single  figure  of 
Iphigenia,  as  the  Greek  ideal  of  heroic  maidenhood 
and  self-devotion,  exists,  I  believe,  in  antique  sculp- 
ture. The  small  and  rather  feebly  elegant  statuette 
by  Christian  Tieck  is  the  only  modern  example  I 
have  seen. 

Iphigenia  may  be  represented  under  two  very 
different  aspects,  both  beautiful. 

First,  as  the  Iphigenia  in  Aulis ;  the  victim  sacri- 
ficed to  obtain  a  fair  wind  for  the  Grecian  fleet  de- 
tained on  its  way  to  Troy.  Extreme  youth  and 
grace,  with  a  tender  resignation  not  devoid  of  dignity, 
should  be  the  leading  characteristics ;  for  we  must 
bear  in  mind  that  Iphigenia,  while  regretting  life 
and  the  "  lamp-bearing  day,"  and  "  the  beloved  light," 
and  her  Argive  home  and  her  "  Mycenian  handmaids," 
dies  willingly,  as  the  Greek  girl  ought  to  die,  for  the 
good  of  her  country.  She  begins,  indeed,  with  a 
prayer  for  pity,  with  lamentations  for  her  untimely 


306 


NOTES    ON    AKT. 


::«  4, 


H 

I 

I 

I'l 


end,  but  slie  resumes  her  nobler  self;  and  all  her 
sentiments,  when  she  is  brought  forth,  crowned  for 
sacrifice,  are  worthy  of  the  daughter  of  Agamemnon. 
She  even  exults  that  she  is  called  upon  to  perish  for 
the  good  of  G-reece,  and  to  avenge  the  cause  of  right 
on  the  Spartan  Helen.  "  I  give,"  she  exclaims,  "my 
life  for  Greece  !  sacrifice  me — and  let  Troy  perish  ! " 
When  her  mother  weeps,  she  reproves  those  tears : 
"  It  is  not  well,  0  my  mother !  that  I  should  love 
life  too  much.  Think  that  thou  hast  brought  me 
forth  for  the  common  good  of  Greece,  not  for  thyself 
only !  "  She  glories  in  her  anticipated  renown,  not 
vainly,  since,  while  the  world  endures,  and  far  as  the 
influences  of  literature  and  art  extend,  her  story  and 
her  name  shall  live.  The  scene  in  Euripides  should 
be  taken  as  the  basis  of  the  character — the  finest 
scene  in  his  finest  drama.  The  tradition  that  Iphi- 
genia  was  not  really  sacrificed,  but  snatched  away 
from  the  altar  by  Diana,  and  a  hind  substituted  in 
her  place,  should  be  present  to  the  fancy  of  the  artist, 
when  he  sets  himself  to  represent  the  majestic  resig- 
nation of  the  consecrated  virgin  ;  as  adding  a  touch 
of  the  marvellous  and  ideal  to  the  Greek  elegance 
and  simplicity  of  the  conception. 

The  picture  of  Iphigenia  as  drawn  by  Tennyson 
is  wonderfully  vivid ;  but  it  wants  the  Greek  dig- 
nity and  statuesque  feeling;  it  is  emphatically  a 
picture,  all  over  colour  and  light,  and  crowded  with 
accessories.      He  represents    her  as    encountering 


d  all  her 

wned  for 

imcmnon. 

3erish  for 

J  of  right 

ms,  "my 

perish ! " 

3se  tears: 

Lould  love 

'Ought  me 

ar  thyself 

nown,  not 

far  as  the 

story  and 

les  should 

■the  finest 

that  Iphi- 

hed  away 

itituted  in 

the  artist, 

stic  resig- 

\g  a  touch 

:  elegance 

lennyson 
reek  dig- 
itically  a 
irded  with 
ountering 


IPHiaENIA. 


301 


Helen  in  the  land  of  Shadows,  and,  turning  from  her 
''  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse,"  for  she  remem- 
bers the  tragedy  at  Aulus. 

"  My  youth  (she  said)  was  blasted  with  a  cane  ; 

This  woman  was  the  cause  I  <  ' 

I  was  cut  ofif  ft-oni  hope  in  tliat  sad  place 

Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and  feon. 
My  father  held  bis  hand  upon  Ids  face ; 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 
Essayed  to  speak ;  my  voice  came  thick  with  sighs 

As  in  a  dream ;  dimly  1  could  descry 
Th^  stem  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 
The  tall  masts  quiver'd  as  they  lay  afloat, 

The  temples  and  the  people  and  the  shore ; 
One  drew  a  sharp  knife  thro'  my  tender  throat 

Slowly— and  nothing  more." 

The  famous  picture  by  Timanthes,  the  theme  of 
admiration  and  criticism  for  the  last  two  thousand 
years,  which  every  writer  on  art  deems  it  proper  to 
mention  in  praise  or  in  blame,  could  hardly  have 
been  more  vivid  or  more  terrible  than  this. 

The  analogous  idea,  that  of  heroic  resignation  and 
self  devotion  in  a  great  cause,  would  be  conveyed  in 
sacred  art  by  the  figure  of  Jephtha's  daughter ;  she 
too  regrets  the  promises  of  life,  but  dies  not  the  less 
willingly.  "  My  father,  if  thou  hast  opened  thy 
mouth  unto  the  Lord,  do  to  me  according  to  that 
which  hath  proceeded  out  of  thy  mouth ;  forasmuch 
as  the  Lord  hath  taken  vengeance  for  thee  of  thine 
enemies,  even  of  the  children  of  Ammon."  And  for 
a  single  statue,  Jephtha's  daughter  would  be  a  fine 
subject — one  to  task  the  powers  of  our  best  sculp- 


308 


NOTES   ON    ART. 


tors ;  the  sentiment  would  be  the  same  as  the  Iphi- 
genia,  but  the  treatment  altogether  different. 

For  the  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  I  think  the  modem 
sculptor  would  do  well  to  set  aside  the  character  as 
represented  by  Euripides,  and  rather  keep  in  view  the 
concepftion  of  Goethe.*  In  his  hand  it  has  lost  no- 
thing of  its  statuesque  elegance  and  simplicity,  and  has 
gained  immeasurably  in  moral  dignity  and  feminine 
tenderness.  The  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  is  no  longer 
young,  but  she  is  still  the  consecrated  virgin ;  no 
more  the  victim,  but  herself  the  priestess  of  those 
very  rites  by  which  she  was  once  fated  to  perish. 
While  Euripides  has  depicted  her  as  stern  and  astute, 
Goethe  has  made  her  the  impersonation  of  female 
devotedness  and  mild,  but  unflinching  integrity.  She 
is  like  the  young  Neoptolemus  when  she  disdains  to 
use  the  stratagem  which  Pylades  had  suggested,  when 
she  dares  to  speak  the  truth,  and  trust  to  it  alone  for 
help  and  safety.  The  scene  in  which  she  is  haunted 
by  the  recollection  of  her  doomed  ancestry,  and 
mutters  over  the  song  of  the  Parcse  on  that  far-off 
sullen  shore,  is  sublime,  but  incapable  of  representa- 
tion in  plastic  art.  It  should,  however,  be  well 
studied,  as  helping  the  artist  to  the  abstract  con- 
ception of  the  character  as  a  whole. 

Carstens  made  a  design,  suggested  by  this  tragedy, 


1 1  ill 


*  There  is  a  fine  translation  of  the  German  Iphigenia  by 
Miss  Swanwick.    (Dramatic  "Works  of  Goethe.    Bohn,  1850.) 


as  the  Iphi- 
3nt.        Y' 

the  modem 
haracter  as 
I  in  view  the 
las  lost  no- 
sity,  and  has 
id  feminine 
3  no  longer 
virgin ;  no 
ss  of  those 
,  to  perish. 
I  and  astute, 
1  of  female 
igrity.  She 
disdains  to 
;ested,  when 
it  alone  for 
is  haunted 
cestry,  and 
that  far-off 
representa- 
er,  be  well 
3stract  eon- 

his  tragedy, 

Iphigenia  by 
Bohn,  1860.) 


EVK. 


309 


of  the  Three  Paroae  singing  their  fatal  mysterious 
Bong.  A  model  of  one  of  the  figures  (that  of  Atropos) 
used  to  stand  in  Goethe's  library,  and  a  cast  from 
this  is  before  me  while  I  write :  every  one  who  sees 
it  takes  it  for  an  antique. 


EVE. 

I  HAVE  but  a  few  words  to  say  of  Eve.  As  she  is 
the  only  undraped  figure  which  is  allowable  in  sacred 
art,  the  sculptors  have  multiplied  representations  of 
her,  more  or  less  finely  imagined ;  but  what  I  con- 
ceive to  be  the  true  type  has  seldom,  very  seldom, 
been  attained.  The  remarks  which  follow  are,  how- 
ever, suggestive,  not  critical. 

It  appears  to  me — and  I  speak  it  with  reverence 
— that  the  Miltonic  typo  is  not  the  highest  con- 
ceivable, nor  the  best  fitted  for  sculptural  treatment. 
Milton  has  evidently  lavished  all  his  power  on  this 
fairest  of  created  beings;  but  he  makes  her  too 
nymph-like — too  goddess -like.  In  one  place  he 
compares  her  to  a  Wood-nymph,  Oread,  or  Dryad 
of  the  groves ;  in  another  to  Diana's  self,  "  though 
not,  as  she,  with  bow  and  quiver  armed."  The  scrip- 
tural conception  of  our  first  parent  is  not  like  this; 
it  is  ampler,  grander,  nobler  far.  I  fancy  her  the 
sublime  ideal  of  maternity.  It  may  be  said  that 
this  idea  of  her  predestined  motherhood  should  not 


310 


NOTES    ON   ART. 


i 


*i       I 


h' 
'■I  l!  i' 


lilll 


predommate  in  the  conception  of  Eve  before  the 
Fall :  but  I  think  it  should. 

It  is  most  beautifully  imagined  by  Milton  that 
Eve,  separated  from  her  mate,  her  Adam,  is  weak, 
and  given  over  to  the  merely  womanish  nature,  for 
only  when  linked  together  and  supplying  the  com- 
plement to  each  other's  moral  being,  can  man  or 
woman  be  strong ;  but  we  must  also  remember  that 
the  "spirited  sly  snake,"  in  tempting  Eve,  even 
when  he  finds  her  alone,  uses  no  vulgar  allurements. 
"  Ye  shall  be  as  Gods,  knowing  good  and  evil." 
Milton,  indeed,  seasons  his  harangue  with  flattery : 
but  for  this  he  has  no  warrant  in  Scripture. 

As  the  Eve  of  Paradise  should  be  majestically 
sinless,  so  after  the  Fall  she  should  not  cower  and 
wail  like  a  disappointed  girl.  Her  infinite  fault, 
her  infinite  woe,  her  infinite  penitence,  should  have 
a  touch  of  grandeur.  She  has  paid  the  inevitable 
price  for  that  mighty  knowledge  of  good  and  evil 
she  so  coveted ;  that  terrible  predestined  expe- 
rience— she  has  found  it,  or  it  has  found  her ; — and 
she  wears  her  crown  of  grief  as  erst  her  crown  of 
innocence. 

I  think  the  noble  picture  of  Eve  in  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's Drama  of  Exile,  as  that  of  the  Mother  of  our 
redemption  not  less  than  the  Mother  of  suffering 
humanity,  might  be  read  and  considered  with  advan- 
tage by  a  modern  sculptor. 


ADAM. 


811 


before  the 

dilton  that 
m,  is  weak, 

nature,  for 
g  the  com- 
an  man  or 
ember  that 

Eve,  even 
illurements. 

and  evil." 
th  flattery: 

majestically 
fc  cower  and 
inite  fault, 
should  have 
3  inevitable 
id  and  evil 
tined  expe- 
i  her; — and 
sr  crown  of 

Irs.  Brown- 
)ther  of  our 
3f  suflFering 
with  advan- 


,.4^'  ^;     -  "  Else,  woman,  rise  -     ,  '    • 

To  thy  peculiar  and  best  altitudes 
Of  doing  good  and  of  restating  ill  1 
Something  thou  hast  to  bear  through  womanhood ; 
Peculiar  suffering  answering  to  the  sin, 
,  ..       Some  pang  paid  down  for  each  new  human  life ; 
Some  weariness  in  guarding  such  a  life, 
Some  coldness  ft-om  the  guarded ;  some  mistrust 
From  those  thou  hast  too  well  served ;  from  those  beloved 
Too  loyally,  some  treason.    But  go,  thy  love 
Shall  chant  to  itself  its  own  beatitudes 
After  its  own  life-working ! 
I  bless  thee  to  the  desert  and  the  thorns. 
To  the  elemental  change  and  turbulence. 
And  to  the  solemn  dignities  of  grief; 
To  each  one  of  these  ends,  and  to  this  end 
Of  Death  and  the  hereafter  I 

Eve,  I  accept, 

For  me  and  for  my  daughters,  this  high  part 
Which  lowly  shall  be  counted ! " 

The  figure  of  Eve  in  Raphael's  design  (the  one 
engraved  by  Marc  Antonio)  is  exquisitely  statuesque 
as  well  as  exquisitely  beautiful.  In  the  moment 
that  she  presents  the  apple  to  Adam  she  looks — 
perhaps  she  ought  to  look — like  the  Venus  Vinci- 
trice  of  the  antique  time ;  but  I  am  not  sure ;  and, 
at  all  events,  the  less  of  the  classical  sentiment  the 
better. 


ADAM. 

I  HAVE  seen  no  statue  of  Adam ;  but  surely  he  is 
a  fine  subject,  either  alone  or  as  the  companion  of 
Eve;  and  the  Miltonic  type  is  here  all  sufficient, 
combining  the  heroic  ideal  of  Greek  art  with  some- 
thing higher  still — 


"Truth,  wisdom,  sanctltude  severe  and  pure," 


812 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


whence   true  authority  in  men — in  fact,  essential 
manliness. 

Goethe  had  the  idea  that  Adam  ought  to  be  rep- 
resented with  a  spade,  as  the  progenitor  of  all  who 
till  the  ground,  and  partially  draped  with  a  deer- 
skin, that  is,  before  the  Fall ;  which  would  be  well : 
but  he  adds  that  Adam  should  have  a  child  at  his 
feet  in  the  act  of  strangling  a  serpent.  This  appears 
to  me  objectionable  and  ambiguous ;  if  admissible  at 
all,  the  accessory  figure  would  bo  a  fitter  accom- 
paniment for  Evo. 

ANGELS. 

Angels,  properly  speaking,  are  neither  winged 
men  nor  winged  children.  Wings,  in  ancient  art, 
were  the  symbols  of  a  divine  nature ;  and  the  early 
Greeks,  who  humanised  their  gods  and  goddesses, 
and  deified  humanity  through  the  perfection  of  the 
forms,  at  first  distinguished  the  divine  and  the 
human  by  giving  wings  to  all  the  celestial  beings ; 
thus  lifting  them  above  the  earth.  Our  religious 
idea  of  angels  is  altogether  diflferent.  Give  to  the 
child-form  wings,  in  other  words,  give  to  the  child 
nature,  innocent  and  pure,  the  adjuncts  of  wisdom 
and  power,  and  thus  you  realise  the  idea  of  the 
angel  as  Eaphael  conceived  it.  It  is  so  difl&c-ilt.  *o 
image  in  the  adult  form  the  union  of  perfect  purity 
and  perfect  wisdom,  the  absence  of  experience  and 


,  essential 

to  be  rep- 
of  all  who 
'h  a  deer- 
i  be  well : 
did  at  his 
lis  appears 
luissible  at 
ier  accom- 


i\ 


er  winged 
icient  art, 

the  early 
goddesses, 
;ion  of  the 
)  and  the 
al  beings; 
•  religious 
ive  to  the 

the  child 
of  wisdom 
lea  of  the 
iiflfic-ilt.  % 
'ect  purity 
ience  and 


ANGELS. 


313 


Bu£fering,  and  the  capacity  of  thinking  and  feeling, 
a  condition  of  being  in  which  all  conscious  motive  is 
lost  in  the  impulse  to  good,  that  it  remains  a  problem 
in  art.  The  angels  of  Angelico  da  Fiesole,  who 
are  not  only  winged,  but  convey  the  idea  of  move- 
ment only  by  the  wings,  not  by  the  limbs,  are  ex- 
quisite, as  fitted  to  minister  to  us  in  heaven,  but 
hardly  as  fitted  to  keep  watch  and  ward  for  us  on 
earth — 

"  Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant" 

The  feminine  element  always  predominates  in  the 
conception  of  angels,  though  they  are  supposed  to 
be  masculine :  I  doubt  whether  it  ought  to  be  so. 

*  «  #  *  * 

"While  these  sheets  are  going  through  the  press,  I 
find  the  following  beautiful  passage  relative  to  angels 
in  the  last  number  of  "  Fraser's  Magazine  ": — 

"  It  is  safer,  even,  and  perhaps  more  orthodox  and 
scriptural,  to  '  impersonate '  time  and  space,  strength 
and  love,  and  even  the  laws  of  nature,  than  to  give 
us  any  more  angel  worlds,  which  are  but  dead  skele- 
tons of  Dante's  creations,  without  that  awful  and 
living  reality  which  they  had  in  his  mind  ;  or  to  fill 
children's  books,  as  the  High  Church  party  are  doing 
now,  with  pictures  and  tales  of  certain  winged  her- 
maphrodites, in  whom  one  cannot  think  (even  by  the 
extremest  stretch  of  charity)  that  the  writers  or 
draughtsmen  really  believe,  while  one  sees  them  ser- 

14 


314 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


1 


vilely  copying  medissval  forms,  and  intermingling 
them  with  the  ornaments. of  an  extinct  architecture; 
thus  confessing  naively  to  every  one  but  themselves, 
that  they  accept  the  whole  notion  as  an  integral  por- 
tion of  a  creed,  to  which,  if  they  be  members  of  the 
Church  of  England,  they  cannot  well  belong,  seeing 
that  it  was,  happily  for  us,  expelled  both  by  law  and 
by  conscience  at  the  Reformation." 

This  is  eloquent  and  true ;  but  not  the  less  true 
it  is,  that,  if  we  have  to  represent  in  art  those  "  spi- 
ritual beings  who  walk  this  earth  unseen,  both  when 
we  sleep  and  when  we  wake  " — beings,  who  (as  the 
author  of  the  above  passage  seems  to  believe)  may 
be  intimately  connected  with  the  phenomena  of  the 
universe — we  must  have  a  type,  a  bodily  type,  under 
which  to  represent  them ;  and  as  we  cannot  do  this 
from  knowledge,  we  must  do  it  symbolically.  Angels, 
as  we  figure  them,  are  symbols  of  moral  and  spiritual 
existences  elevated  above  ourselves  —  we  do  not 
believe  in  the  forms,  we  only  accept  their  significance. 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  better  impersonation  than 
the  impossible  creatures  represented  in  art ;  but  till 
some  artist-poet,  or  poet-artist,  has  invented  such  an 
impersonation,  we  must  employ  that  which  is  already 
familiarised  to  the  eye  and  the  fancy  without  impos- 
ing on  the  understanding. 


"^ 


•  ,:ii  V 


i-MJ- 


termingliog 
rcliitecture ; 

themselves, 
Qtegral  por- 
abers  of  the 
(long,  seeing 

by  law  and 

the  less  true 
those  "  spi- 
],  both  when 
who  (as  the 
believe)  may 
[nena  of  the 
f  type,  under 
mnot  do  this 
illy.   Angels, 
and  spiritual 
-we  do  not 
r  significance, 
lonation  than 
art ;  but  till 
inted  such  an 
ich  is  already 
ithout  impos- 


MIRIAM. — RUTH. — CHRIST. — SOLOMON. 


316 


MIRIAM.  BOTH 

Both  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament  abound  in 
sculptural  subjects :  but  fitly  to  deal  with  the  Old 
Testament  required  a  Michal-Angelo.  Beautiful  as 
are  the  gates  of  Ghiberti,  they  are  hardly  what  the 
Germans  would  call  "  alt-testamentische,"  they  are  so 
essentially  elegant  and  graceful,  and  the  old  Hebrew 
legends  and  personages  are  so  tremendous.  Even 
Miriam  and  Ruth  dilate  into  a  sort  of  grandeur.  In 
representation  I  always  fancy  them  above  life-size. 

I  doubt  whether  the  same  artist  who  could  con- 
ceive the  Prophets  would  be  able  to  represent  the 
Apostles,  or  that  the  same  hand  which  gave  us  Moses 
could  give  us  Christ.  Michal-Angelo's  ideal  of 
Christ,  both  in  painting  and  sculpture,  is,  to  me,  re- 
volting. 


CHRIST.        SOLOMON. 


DAVID. 


I  DO  not  like  the  idea  of  Moses  and  Christ  placed 
together.  Much  finer  in  artistic  and  moral  contrast 
would  be  the  two  teachers, — Christ  as  the  divine  and 
spiritual  law-giver,  Solomon  as  the  type  of  worldly 
wisdom.  They  should  stand  side  by  side,  or  be  seated 
each  on  his  throne,  a  crowned  King,  with  book  and 
sceptre — but  how  different  in  character ! 

"We  have  multiplied  statues  of  David.  I  have 
never  seen  one  which  realised  the  finest  conception  of 


!, 


316 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


his  character,  either  as  Hero,  King,  Prophet,  or 
Poet.  In  general  he  figures  as  the  slayer  of  Goliath, 
and  is  always  too  feeble  and  boyish.  David,  singing 
to  his  lute  before  Saul ;  David  as  the  musician  and 
poet,  young,  beautiful,  half  draped,  heaven-inspired, 
exercising  by  his  art  the  dark  spirit  of  evil  which 
possessed  the  jealous  King; — this  would  be  a  theme 
for  an  artist,  and  would  as  finely  represent  the  power 
of  sacred  song  as  a  figure  of  St.  Cecilia.  But  the 
sentiment  should  not  be  that  of  a  young  Apollo,  or 
an  Orpheus ;  therein  would  lie  the  chief  difficulty. 


HAOAB. 


BEBEKAH. 


BACHEL. 


W 


I  REMEMBER  to  havc  Seen  fine  statues  of  Hagar 
holding  her  pitcher,  of  Kebekah  contemplating  her 
bracelet,  and  of  Eachel  as  the  shepherdess.  But  I 
would  have  a  different  version ;  Hagnr  as  the  poor 
cast-away,  driven  forth  with  her  boy  into  the  wilder- 
ness ;  Kebekah  as  the  exulting  bride ;  and  Eachel 
as  the  mild,  pensive  wife.  They  would  represent,  in 
a  very  complete  manner,  contrasted  phases  of  the 
destiny  of  Woman,  connected  together  by  our  re- 
ligious associations,  and  appealing  to  our  deepest 
human  sympathies.  n^' 


THE  QUEEN  OP  SHEBA. 


The  Queen  of  Sheba  would  be  a  fine  subject  for  a 
single  statue,  as  the  religious  type  of  the  queenly. 


9UEEN  OF  8UEBA. — LADY  OODIVA. 


817 


ophet,  or 
>f  Goliath, 
id,  singing 
sician  and 
n-inspired, 
evil  which 
)e  a  themo 
the  power 
But  the 
Apollo,  or 
ifficulty. 

W  , 

■ 

of  Hagar 
lating  her 
3S.  But  I 
s  the  poor 
the  wilder- 
nd  Bachel 
present,  in 
ses  of  the 
by  our  re- 
ar deepest 


ibject  for  a 
e  queenly, 


intellectual  woman,  the  treatment  being  kept  as  far 
as  possible  from  that  of  a  Pallas  or  a  Muse. 

The  journey  of  the  Queen  of  the  South  to  visit 
Solomon  would  be  a  capital  subject  for  a  processional 
bas-relief,  and  as  a  pendant  to  the  journey  of  "  the 
Wise  Men  of  the  East,"  to  visit  a  greater  than  Solo- 
mon. The  latter  has  been  perpetually  treated  from 
the  fourth  century.  Of  the  journey  of  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  I  have  seen,  as  yet,  no  example. 

LADY  QODIVA. 

With  regard  to  statuesque  subjects  from  modern 
history  and  poetry, — Romantic  Sculpture^  as  it  is 
styled, — the  taste  both  of  the  public  and  the  artist 
evidently  sets  in  this  direction.  That  the  treatment 
of  such  subjects  should  not  be  classical  is  admitted ; 
but  in  the  development  of  this  romantic  tendency, 
there  is  cause  to  fear  that  we  may  be  inundated  with 
all  kinds  of  picturesque  vagaries  and  violations  of  the 
just  laws  and  limits  of  art. 

I  remember,  however,  a  circumstance  which  makes 
me  hopeful  as  to  the  progress  of  feeling ;  knowledge 
may  come  hereafter.  I  remember  about  twenty  years 
ago  proposing  the  figure  and  story  of  Lady  Godiva 
as  beautiful  subjects  for  sculpture  and  painting. 
There  were  present  on  that  occasion,  among  others, 
two  artists  and  a  poet.     The  two  artists  laughed  out- 


818 


NOTES    ON   ART. 


right,  and  tho  poet  extemporised  an  epigram  upon 
Peeping  Tom.  If  I  were  to  propose  Lady  Godiva 
as  a  subject  now,*  I  boliovo  it  would  be  received  with 
a  far  different  feeling  even  by  those  very  men.  If  I 
were  Queen  of  England  I  would  have  it  painted  in 
Fresco  in  my  council  chamber.  There  should  be  seen 
the  palfrey  with  its  rich  housings,  and  near  him,  as  pre- 
paring to  mount,  the  noble  lady  should  stand,  timid, 
but  resolved :  her  veil  lies  on  the  ground ;  the  drapery 
just  falling  from  her  fair  limbs  is  partly  sustained  by 
one  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  loosens  her  golden 
tresses.  A  bevy  of  waiting-maids,  with  averted 
faces,  disappear  hurriedly  beneath  the  massive  porch 
of  the  Saxon  palace,  which  forms  the  background, 
with  sky  and  trees  seen  through  openings  in  the 
heavy  architecture.  This  is  the  picturesque  version 
of  the  story ;  but  there  are  many  others.  As  a  single 
statue,  the  figure  of  Lady  Godiva  affords  an  oppor- 
tunity for  the  legitimate  treatment  of  the  undraped 
female  form,  sanctified  by  the  purest,  the  most  ele- 
vated associations; — by  woman's  tearful  pride  and 
man's  respect  and  gratitude.  ' 


*  1848.  At  the  moment  I  transcribe  this  (1864),  a  very 
charming  statue  of  the  Lady  Godiva  (suggested,  I  believe,  by 
Tennyson's  poem"4  stands  in  the  Exhibition  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  , 

'»    '   "  _,  ■■•--■■' 


JOAN    OF   AKC. 


819 


ram  upon 
cly  Godiva 
eived  with 
Hen.  If  I 
painted  in 
Id  be  seen 
lim,  as  pre- 
md,  timid, 
he  drapery 
stained  by 
her  golden 
ih  averted 
ssive  porch 
ackground, 
Dgs  in  the 
][ue  version 
As  a  single 
an  oppor- 
;  undraped 
3  most  ele- 
pride  and 


1864),  a  very 
I  believe,  by 
)f  the  Royal 


JOAN  OF  ABO. 

SHAKsrEAiiE,  who  is  so  horribly  unjust  to  Joan 
of  Arc,  has  put  a  sublime  speech  into  her  mouth 
where  she  answers  Burgundy  who  had  accused  her 
of  sorcery, — 

"  Because  you  want  the  grace  that  others  have, 
Tou  Judge  it  straight  a  thing  impossible 
To  corapasu  wonders  but  by  help  of  devils  I '» 

The  whole  theory  of  popular  superstition  comprised 
iu  three  lines  ! 

But  Joan  herself — how  at  her  name  the  whole 
heart  seems  to  rise  up  in  resentment,  not  so  much 
against  her  cowardly  executioners  as  against  those 
who  have  so  wronged  her  memory !  Never  was  a 
character,  historically  pure,  bright,  definite,  and  per- 
fect in  every  feature  and  outline,  so  abominably 
treated  in  poetry  and  fiction, — perhaps  for  this  reason, 
that  she  was  in  herself  so  exquisitely  wrought,  so 
complete  a  specimen  of  the  heroic,  the  poetic,  the 
romantic,  that  she  could  not  bo  touched  by  art  or 
modified  by  fancy,  without  being  in  some  degree  pro- 
faned. As  to  art,  I  never  saw  yet  any  representa- 
tion of  "  Jean  la  grande  Pastoure,"  except,  perhaps, 
the  lovely  statue  by  the  Princess  of  Wurtemburg, 
which  I  could  endure  to  look  at — and  even  that  gives 
us  the  contemplative  simplicity,  but  not  the  power, 
intellect,  and  energy,  which  must  have  formed  so 
large  a  part  of  the  character.     Then  as  to  the  poets, 


320 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


t'    I 


what  shall  be  said  of  them?  First  Shakspeare, 
writing  for  the  English  stage,  took  up  the  popular 
idea  of  the  character  as  it  prevailed  in  England  in 
his  own  time.  Into  the  hypothesis  that  the  greater 
part  of  Henry  VI.  is  not  by  Shakspeare,  there  is  no 
occasion  to  enter  here  ;  the  original  conception  of  the 
character  of  Joan  of  Arc  may  not  be  his,  but  he  has 
left  it  untouched  in  its  principal  features.  The 
English  hated  the  memory  of  the  French  Heroine, 
because  she  had  caused  the  loss  of  France  and  had 
humiliated  us  as  a  nation  ;  and  our  chroniclers  re- 
venged themselves  and  healed  their  wounded  self- 
love  by  imputing  her  victories  to  witchcraft.  Shaks- 
peare, giving  her  the  attributes  which  the  historians 
of  his  time  assigned  to  her,  represents  her  as  a  war- 
like, arrogant  sorceress — a  "  monstrous  woman  " — 
attended  and  assisted  by  demons.  I  pass  over  the 
depraved  and  perverse  spirit  in  which  Voltaire  pro- 
faned this  divine  character.  A  theme  which  a  patriot 
poet  would  have  approached  as  he  would  have  ap- 
proached an  altar,  he  has  made  a  vehicle  for  the  most 
licentious  parody  that  ever  disgraced  a  national  litera- 
ture. Schiller  comes  next,  and  hardly  seems  to  me 
more  excusable.  Not  only  has  he  missed  the  charac- 
ter, he  has  deliberately  falsified  both  character  and 
fact.  His  "  Johanna "  might  have  been  called  by 
any  other  name ;  and  the  scene  of  his  tragedy  might 
have  been  placed  anywhere  in  the  wide  world  with 
just  the  same  probability  and  truth.     Schiller  and 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


321 


hakspeare, 
he  popular 
England  in 
he  greater 
there  is  no 
tion  of  the 
but  he  has 
res.  The 
1  Heroine, 
ce  and  had 
iniclers  re- 
mded  self- 
ft.  Shaks- 
)  historians 
r  as  a  war- 
woman  " — 
5S  over  the 
>ltaire  pro- 
h  a  patriot 
d  have  ap- 
Dr  the  most 
onal  litera- 
3ems  to  me 
the  charac- 
iracter  and 
called  by 
^edy  might 
(vorld  with 
chiller  and 


Goethe  held  a  principle  that  all  considerations  were 
to  yield  before  the  proprieties  of  art.  But  Milton 
speaks  somewhere  of  those  "  faultless  proprieties  of 
nature  "  which  never  can  be  violated  with  impunity  ; 
and  Art  can  never  move  freely  but  in  the  domain 
of  nature  and  of  truth.  All  the  fine  writing  in 
Schiller's  "  Maid  of  Orleans  "  can  never  reconcile 
me  to  its  absolute  and  revolting  falsehood.  The 
sublime,  simple-hearted  girl,  who  to  the  last  moment 
regarded  herself  as  set  apart  by  God  to  do  His  work, 
he  makes  the  victim  of  an  insane  passion  for  a  young 
Englishman.  In  the  love-sick  classical  heroines  of 
Corneille  and  Racine  there  is  nothing  more  Frenchi- 
fied, more  absurd,  more  revolting.  Then  he  makes 
her  die  victorious  on  the  field  of  battle  defending  the 
oriflamme ; — far,  far  more  glorious  as  well  as  more 
pathetic  her  real  death — but  it  oflFended  against 
Schiller's  aesthetic  conception  of  the  dignity  of 
tragedy.  - 

Lastly,  we  have  Southey's  epic :  what  shall  be 
said  of  it? — even  what  he  said  of  the  Lusiad  of 
Camoens,  "  that  it  is  read  with  little  emotion,  and 
remembered  with  little  pleasure."  No.  I  do  not 
wish  to  see  Joan  tuined  into  a  heroine  of  tragedy  or 
tale,  because,  as  it  seems  to  me,  the  whole  life  and 
death  of  this  martyred  girl  is  too  near  us,  and  too 
historically  distinct,  and,  I  will  add,  too  sacred  to 
be  dressed  out  in  romantic  prose  or  verse.  What 
Walter  Scott  might  have  made  of  her  I  do  not  know 


-fc 


822 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


I?        I 


— something  marvellously  picturesque  and  life-like, 
no  doubt — and  yet  I  am  glad  he  did  not  try  his  hand 
on  her.  But  she  remains  a  legitimate  and  most 
admirable  subject  for  representative  art ;  and  as  yet 
nothing  has  been  done  in  sculpture  to  fix  the  ideal 
and  heroic  in  her  character,  nor  in  painting,  worthy 
of  her  exploits.  There  exists  no  cotemporary  por- 
trait of  her  except  in  the  brief  description  of  her  in 
the  old  French  Chronicle  of  the  Siege  of  Orleans, 
where  it  is  said  that  her  figure  was  tall  and  slender, 
her  bust  fine,  her  hair  and  eyes  black ;  that  she  wore 
her  hair  short,  and  could  never  be  persuaded  to  put 
on  a  head-piece,  and  farther  (and  in  this  respect  both 
Schiller  and  Southey  have  wronged  her),  that  she 
had  never  slain  a  man,  using  her  consecrated  sword 
merely  to  defend  herself.  I  should  like  to  see  a  fine 
equestrian  statue  of  her  by  one  of  our  best  English 
sculptors,  set  up  in  a  conspicuous  place  among  us,  as 
a  national  expiation. 

Southey  mentions  that  in  the  beginning  of  the 
last  war,  about  1795,  when  popular  feeling,  excited 
almost  to  frenzy,  raged  against  France,  a  pantomime, 
or  ballet,  was  performed  at  Covent  Garden,  from  the 
story  of  Joan  of  Arc,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  she 
is  carried  away  by  demons,  like  a  female  Don  Juan. 
This  denouement  caused  such  a  storm  of  indignation, 
that  the  author — one  James  Cross — was  obliged, 
after  the  first  two  or  three  representations,  to  change 
the  demons  into  angels,  and  send  her  straight  into 


CHARACTERS    FROM   8I1AKSPKARE. 


323 


life-like, 
'  his  hand 
and  most 
id  as  yet 

the  ideal 
g,  worthy 
irary  por- 

of  her  in 
Orleans, 
d  slender, 
;  she  wore 
led  to  put 
3pect  both 
,  that  she 
ted  sword 

see  a  fine 
3t  English 
ong  us,  as 

ng  of  the 
g,  excited 
antomime, 
,  from  the 
which  she 
)on  Juan, 
dignation, 
s  obliged, 
to  change 
aight  into 


Heaven : — an  anecdote  pleasant  to  record,  as  illus- 
trating the  sure  ultimate  triumph  of  truth  over  false- 
hood ;  of  all  the  better  sympathies  over  prejudice 
and  wrong ; — in  spite  of  history,  and,  what  is  more, 
in  spite  of  Shakspeare  I  ^ 

CHARACTERS    FROM    BIIAIiSPEARE. 

Joan  of  Arc  is  not,  however,  a  Shaksperian 
character;  and,  in  fact,  there  are  very  few  of  his 
personages  susceptible  of  sculptural  treatment. 
They  are  too  dramatic,  too  profound,  too  complex 
in  their  essential  nature  where  they  are  tragic ;  too 
many-sided  and  picturesque  where  they  are  comic. 

For  instance,  the  attempt  to  condense  into  marble 
such  light,  evanescent,  quaint  creations  as  those  in 


(( 


The  Midsummer's  Night's  Dream"  is  better 
avoided;  we  ff'il  that  a  marble  fairy  must  be  a 
heavy  absurdity.  Obcron  and  Titania  might  per- 
haps float  along  in  a  bas-relief;  but  we  cannot  put 
away  the  thought  that  they  have  reality  without  sub- 
stantiality, and  we  do  not  like  to  see  them,  or  Ariel, 
or  Caliban  fixed  in  the  definite  forms  of  sculpture. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  of  Shakspeare's  charac- 
ters which  appear  to  rae  beautifully  adapted  for 
statuesque  treatment :  Perdita  holding  her  flowers ; 
Miranda  lingering  on  the  shore ;  might  well  replace 
the  innumerable  "  Floras  "  and  "  Nymphs  preparing 
to  bathe,"  which  people  the  ateliers  of  our  sculptors. 


324 


^$: 


MOTES    ON    ART. 


w 


n 


Cordelia  has  something  of  marble  quietude  about 
her ;  and  Hermione  is  a  statue  ready  made.  And, 
by  the  way,  it  is  observable  that  Shakspeare  repre- 
sents Hermione  as  a  coloured  statue.  Paulina  will 
not  allow  it  to  be  touched,  because  "  the  colour  is 
not  yet  dry."    Again, — 

"  Would  you  not  deem  those  veina 
Did  vorlly  bear  blood  ? 

The  very  life  seema  warm  upon  her  lipa, 
The  fixture  of  her  eye  bath  motion  In't, 
And  we  are  mocked  by  Art ! 

The  ruddlnesa  upon  her  Up  la  wet, 
You'll  mar  It  If  you  kiss  It,  stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting." 

I  think  it  possible  to  model  Fmall  ornamental 
statuettes  and  groups  from  some  few  of  the  scenes  in 
Shakspeare's  plays ;  but  this  is  quite  diflferent  from 
life-size  figures  of  Hamlet,  Othello,  Shylock,  Mac- 
beth, which  must  either  have  the  look  of  real  in- 
dividual  portraiture,  or  become  mere  idealisations  of 
certain  qualities;  and  Shakspeare's  creations  are 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 


CHABAGTEBS  FEOM   SPENSEB. 

Spenser  is  so  essentially  a  picturesque  poet,  he 
depends  for  his  rich  effects  so  much  on  the  combina- 
tion of  colour  and  imagery,  and  multiplied  accessories, 
that  one  feels — at  least  /  feel,  on  laying  down  a 
volume  of  the  ''  Fairie  Queene,"  dazzled  as  if  I  had 


t 


C0MU8. 


325 


le  about 
3.  And, 
re  repre- 
lina  will 
[;oloar  is 


aamental 
scenes  in 
snt  from 
ck,  Mac- 
'  real  in- 
ations  of 
tions  are 


been  walking  in  a  gallery  of  pictures.  His  ''  Masque 
of  Cupid,"  for  instance,  although  a  procession  of 
poetical  creations,  could  not  be  transferred  to  a  bas- 
relief  without  completely  losing  its  Spenserian  cha- 
racter— its  wondrous  glow  of  colour.  Thus  Cupid 
"uprears  himself  exulting  from  the  back  of  the 
ravenous  lion ; "  removes  the  bandage  from  his  eyes, 
that  he  may  look  round  on  his  victims;  "shakes 
the  darts  which  his  right  hand  doth  strain  full 
dreadfully,"  and  "  claps  on  high  his  coloured  wings 
twain."  This  certainly  is  not  the  Greek  Cupid,  nor 
the  Cupid  of  sculpture ;  it  is  the  Spenserian  Cupid. 
So  of  his  Una,  so  of  his  Britomart,  and  the  Bed 
Cross  Knight  and  Sir  Guyon:  one  might  make 
elegant  statuesque  impersonations  of  the  allegories 
they  involve,  as  of  Truth,  Chastity,  Faith,  Tempe- 
rance ;  but  then  they  would  lose  immediately  their 
Spenserian  character  and  sentiment,  and  must  be- 
come something  altogether  different. 


.V. 


THE  LADY. 


COMUS. 


I  poet,  he 

combina- 

icessories, 

I  down  a 

if  I  had 


It  is  not  so  with  Milton.  The  '*  Lady "  in 
Comus,  whether  she  stand  listening  to  the  echoes  of 
her  own  sweet  voice,  or  motionless  as  marble  under 
the  spell  of  the  "false  enchanter,"  looking  that 
divine  reproof  which  in  the  open  poem  she  speaks,-" 

**  I  bate  when  vice  can  bolt  ber  argnmento, 
And  Tlrtae  baa  no  tongue  to  cbeck  ber  pride  "— 


'f'i 

t      n 

a 


\>  4 


326 


NOTES    ON    ART. 


w 


is  a  subject  perfectly  fitted  for  sculpture,  and  never, 
80  far  as  I  know,  executed.  It  would  be  a  far  more 
appropriate  ornament  for  a  lady's  boudoir  than 
French  statues  of  Modesty,  which  generally  have 
the  effect  of  making  one  feel  very  much  ashamed. 

Sabrina  has  been  beautifully  treated. 

It  is  difficult  to  render  Comus  without  making 
him  too  like  a  Bacchus  or  an  Apollo.  He  is  neither. 
He  represents  not  the  beneficent  but  the  intoxicating 
and  brutifying  power  of  wine.  His  joviality  should 
not  be  that  of  a  God,  but  with  something  mis- 
chievous, bestial.  Faun-like;  and  he  should  have, 
with  the  Dionysian  grace,  a  dash  of  the  cunning  and 
malignity  of  his  Mother  Circe.  These  characteristics 
should  be  in  the  mind  of  the  artist.  The  panther's 
skin,  the  coronal  of  vine  leaves,  and,  instead  of  the 
Thyrsus,  the  magician's  wand,  are  the  proper  acces- 
sories. It  is  also  worth  notice,  that  in  the  antique 
representations  Comus  has  wings  as  a  demigod,  and 
in  a  picture  described  by  Philostratus  (a  night  scene) 
he  lies  crouched  in  a  drunken  sleep.  Little  use, 
however,  is  made  of  him  in  the  antique  myths,  and 
the  Miltonic  conception  is  that  which  should  be 
embodied  by  the  modern  sculptor. 

II  Penseroso  and  L'AUegro,  if  embodied  in 
sculpture  as  poetical  abstractions  (either  masculine 
or  feminine)  of  Melancholy  and  Mirth,  would  cease 
to  be  Miltonic,  for  the  conceptions  of  the  poet  are 
essentially  picturesque,  and  expressed  in  both  cases 


SATAN. 


327 


ad  never, 
far  more 
loir  than 
illy  have 
amed. 

)  making 
s  neither, 
ioxicating 
ty  should 
ling  mis- 
ild  have, 
ming  and 
icteristics 
panther's 
id  of  the 
per  acces- 
e  antique 
igod,  and 
;ht  scene) 
ittle  use, 
yths,  and 
hould  be 

odied  in 
nasculine 
aid  cease 
poet  are 
oth  cases 


by  a  luxuriant  accumulation  of  images  and  acces- 
sories, not  to  be  brought  within  the  limits  of  plastic 
art  without  the  most  tasteless  confusion  and  in- 
consistency.     -" 


•'* 


'ii^-. 


't- 


ffi^-i, 


SATAN. 


The   religious   idea   of   a   Satan — the   imperso- 
nation of  that  mixture  of  the  bestial,  the  malignant. 


the 


impious, 


and 


the  hopeless,  which  constitute 
THE  Fiend,  the  enemy  of  all  that  is  human 
and  divine — I  conceive  to  be  quite  unfitted  for 
the  purpose  of  sculpture.  Danton's  attempt  degen- 
erates into  grim  caricature.  Milton's  Satan — 
"  the  archangel  ruined," — is  however  a  strictly 
poetical  creation,  and  capable  of  the  most  poetical 
statuesque  treatment.  But  we  must  remember  that, 
if  it  be  a  gross  mistake,  religious  and  artistic,  to 
conceive  the  Messiah  under  the  form  of  a  larger, 
stronger  humanity,  with  a  physique  like  that  of  a 
wrestler,  it  is  equally  a  mistake  to  conceive  the  lost 
Ljgel,  our  spiritual  adversary,  under  any  such  coarse 
Herculean  lineaments.  There  can  be  no  image  of 
the  Miltonic  Satan  without  the  elements  of  beauty, 
"  thoTigh  changed  by  pale  ire,  envy,  and  despair ! " 
Colossal  he  may  be,  vast  as  Mount  Athos ;  but  it  is 
not  necessary  to  express  this  that  he  should  be  hewn 
out  of  Mount  Athos,  or  look  like  the  giant  Poly- 
pheme !     His  proportions,  his  figure,  his  features^— 


1 1 


328 


MOTES   ON   ART. 


like  his  power — are  angelic.  As  the  Hero — for  he 
is  so — of  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  the  subject  is  open 
to  poetic  treatment ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that  as  yet 
it  has  been  poetically  treated. 

Of  the  Italian  poetry  and  history,  and  all  the 
wondrous  and  lovely  shapes  which  come  thronging 
out  of  that  Elysian  land, — I  can  say  nothing  now, — 
or  only  this, — that  after  all  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
I  am  right  about  Spenser.  For,  at  first  view,  what 
poet  seems  less  amenable  to  statuesque  treatment 
than  Dante  ?  One  would  have  imagined  that  only  a 
preternatural  fusion  of  Michal-Angelo  and  Bem- 
brandt  could  fitly  render  the  murky  recesses  and 
ghastly  and  monstrous  inhabitants  of  the  Inferno,  or 
attempt  to  shadow  forth  the  dazzling  mysteries  of 
the  Paradiso.  Yet  see  what  Flaxman  has  achieved ! 
His  designs  are  legitimate  basbeliefs,  not  pictures  in 
outline.  He  has  been  true  to  his  own  art,  and  all 
that  could  be  done  within  the  limitation  of  his  art  he 
has  accomplished.  It  is  a  translation  of  Dante^s 
'^  Ideas  into  sculpture,  with  every  thing  peculiarly 
Dantesque  in  the  treatment,  set  aside. 
•  Now  as  to  our  more  modern  poets. — From  amid 
the  long  array  of  beautiful  subjects  which  seem  to 
move  in  succession  before  the  fancy,  there  are  two 
which  stand  out  prominent  in  their  beauty.  First, 
Lord  Byron's  "  Myrrha,"  who  with  her  Ionian  ele- 
gance is  susceptible  of  the  purest  classical  treatment. 
She  should  hold  a  torch ;  but  not  with  the  air  of  a 


MYRRHA. ION. 


820 


0 — for  he 
it  is  open 
hat  as  yet 

id  all  the 
thronging 
Qg  now, — 
'■  sure  that 
lew,  what 
treatment 
lat  only  a 
,nd  Bern- 
iesses  and 
nferno,  or 
steries  of 
achieved ! 
pictures  in 
t,  and  all 
his  art  he 
^  Dante's 
peculiarly 


Maenad,  nor  of  a   Thais  about  to  fire  Persepolis. 
The  sentiment  should  be  deeper  and  quieter. 

"  Dost  thou  think 
A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  does  for  custom  ?  '* 

Ion  in  Talfourd's  Tragedy — the  boy-hero,  in  all 
the  tenderness  of  extreme  youth,  already  self-devoted 
and  touched  with  a  melancholy  grace  and  an  eleva- 
tion beyond  his  years — is  so  essentially  statuesque, 
that  I  am  surprised  that  no  sculptor  has  attempted 
it ;  perhaps  because,  in  this  instance,  as  in  that  of 
Myrrha,  the  popular  realization  of  both  characters 
as  subjects  of  formative  art  has  been  spoiled  by 
theatrical  trappings  and  associations. 


THE  END. 


rom  amid 
1  seem  to 
J  are  two 
y.  First, 
)nian  ele< 
ireatment. 
I  air  of  a 


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■      i' 

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w 


A  LIST  J 

n;ew  works 

IN     G  E  N  E  n  A  L.     li  I  T  E  B  A  T  V  B  E  » 

FUBLISnED  BT 

D.  APPLETON   &   OOMPANT, 
840  A;  848  Broadway. 

%*  Complete  Catalogues,  containing  full  deaoriptiona,  to  ba  had  on  application  to 

th«  PubliaherB. 


Agrionltnre  and  Bnral  Afllfdrf . 

BoiiHin^ault'i  Rural  Econoiny,  .  .  .  1  96 
The  Pmiltrj-  Book,  illuMrated,  .        .        .    8  00 

Witring'*  ElemeiiU  of  Agriculture,  .        .        76 

Arts,  Mannfaotores,  and  ArohiteO' 
tore. 

Appleton't  Dictionary  nf  Meohanict.  3  vela.    .  13  00 
"  Meclianin'  Mai;uzine.  3  volt,  each,   8  60 

Allen'i  Philoiopliy  of  Mectuuiic«|  .  •  .  8  60 
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Baunett'a  Theory  of  Storm*,  .  .  .  .  1  00 
Bourne  on  the  Steam  Kugine,  ....       76 

Bvme  on  Loearithmi, 1  00 

Cbapman  on  the  American  Rifle.  •  .  .  1  36 
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CuUum  on  Military  Bridges,  .  .  .  .  3  00 
Downing's  Country  Houses,  .  .  .  .  4  00 
Field's  City  Architecture,  .  .  .  .  3  00 
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Haupt's  Theory  of  Bridge  Construction,  . 
Henck's  Field-Book  for  K.  Road  Engineers, 
HoWyn's  Dictionary  of  Scientific  Terms, 
Hufrs  Manual  of  Electro-Physiology,  . 
JeOers'  Practice  of  Naval  Gunnery,  .  ~ 
Knapen's  Mechanics'  Assistant,  .  . 
Lafever's  Modem  Architecture,  .  . 
Lyell's  Manual  of  Geology,  .  .  . 
"  Principles  of  Geology, .  .  . 
Reynold's  Treatise  on  Handrailing,  . 
Templeton's  Mechanic's  Companiob,  . 
Ure's  Dict'ry  of  Arts,  Manufactures,  As. 
Youmans'  Class-Book  of  Chemistry, 
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3  vols.  6  00 

76 

3  00 


**         Alcohol, 60 

Bii^praphy. 

Arnold's  Life  and  Correspondence,  .        .        .  9  00 
Capt.  Cannt,  or  Twenty  Years  of  a  S  .iver,      .  •  1  26 

Cousin's  De  Longueville,  .       .        .        .        .  1  00 

Croswoll's  Memoirs, .        .        ...        .        .  3  00 

Evelyn's  Life  of  Oodolphin,      ....  60 

Garland's  Life  of  Ramlolph,     .        .        .        .  1  60 

Oiltillnn's  Gallery  o'  Portraits.  Sd  Series,        .  1  00 

Heman  Cortex's  Lite,         ,       .               .       ,  88 

Hull's  Civil  and  Military  Life,  .        .        .        .  1  00 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Daniel  Boone,      .        .  38 

Life  of  Henry  Hudson, 88 

Life  of  Capt.  John  Smith,         ....  38 

Moore's  Life  of  George  Castriot,       .        .        .  1  00 

Napoleon's  Memoirs,  By  Duchess  D'Abrnntes,  4  00 

Napoleon.  By  Laurent  L'Ariiiche,  .        .        .  8  00 

Pinkney  (W.)  Life.  By  his  Nephew,       .        .  3  00 

Party  Leaders :  Lives  of  Jefferson,  Ac.  •        .  1  00 

Southey's  IJfe  of  Oliver  Cromwell,          .        .  88 

Wynne's  Lives  of  Eminent  Men,      .        .        .  1  00 

Webster's  Life  and  Memorials.  3  vols.    .        .  1  00 

Books  of  General  Utility. 

Ai(.elona' Southern  and  Western  Guide,       .  100 

**         Northern  and  Eastern  Guide,        .  1  96 


Appletons'  Complete  U.  S.  Gulds,  . 

"         Map  of  N.  Y.  City, 
American  Practical  Cook  Book,       .        . 
A  Treatise  on  Artificial  Fish-Breedlng,    . 
Chemistry  of  Common  Life,  3  vols,  l-imo. 
Cooley's  Book  of  Useful  Knowledge, 
Cust's  Invalid's  Own  Book,      .        .        . 
Delisser's  Interest  Tables,         .       . 
The  English  Cyclopaedial  per  vol.   . 
Miles  on  the  Horse's  Foot,        .... 
The  Nursery  Basket.  A  Book  for  Young  Mothers, 
Pell's  Guide  for  the  Young, 
Reld's  New  English  Dictionary, 
Stewart's  Stable  Economy. 
Spalding's  Hist,  of  Englisn  Literature,    . 
Soyer's  Modem  Cookery,         .        .        . 
The  Successful  Merchant,         ,       . 
Thomson  on  Food  of  Animals, .       .       . 

Commeroe  and  Mercantile  AfBurs. 

1  00 
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too 

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71 

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Anderson's  Mercantile  Correspondence,  . 

Delisser's  Interest  Tables,        . 

Merchants'  Reference  Book,    . 

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per  Annum.  8vo.        .... 

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Smith's  Mercantile  I^w, .... 


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Appleton's  Modem  Atlas.   84  Maps, 

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Atlas  of  the  Middle  Age^t.    By  Kceppen, 

Black's  General  Atliis.   71  Map*,     .  . 

Cornell's  Primary  Geography, 

"       Intermediate  Geography,  ,  . 

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History. 

Arnold's  History  of  Rome 

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Mahon's  (Lord)  History  of  England,  3  vols.    . 
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"  History  of  the  Roman  Republic,     . 

Rowan's  History  of  the  French  Revolution,  . 
Sprague's  History  of  the  Florida  War,  .  . 
Taylor's  Manual  of  Ancient  History,        . 

"       Manual  of  Modem  History,       .        .    i  ou 

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Jnyenile  Books. 

A  Poetry  Book  for  Children,  ....  76 
Aunt  Kunnv's  Chriatina*  Storlea,  .  ...  60 
American  Hiatorical  Tales,      .       .       .  '    .       75 

UNCLE  AMEREl's  STORY  BOOKS. 

The  Little  Gift  Book.  18mo.  cloth,       .        .  S5 

The  Chlld'a  Story  Book.    Illuat.   ISmo.  cloth,  86 

Summer  Holidaya.    ISmo.  cloth,     ...  86 

Winter  Holidnya.  Illuitrated.  18mo.  cloth,  .  35 
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ted,   18mo.  cloth. 26 

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Book  of  Tradea, 80 

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COUSIN  Alice's  works. 

All'*  Not  Gold  that  Glitter*.     ....  75 

Contentment  Better  than  Wealth,    ...  63 

Nothinff  Venture,  Nothing  Have,    ...  63 

No  aucU  Word  aa  Fail 63 

Patient  Waiting  No  Loss,         ....  63 

Daahwood  Priory.     By  the  Author  of  Edgar 

Clifton, 7d 

Edgar  Clifton;  or  Right  and  Wrong,      .        .  76 

Fireside  Fairiea.  By  Suaan  Pindar,        .       .  63 

Good  in  Every  Thing.  By  Mrs.  Barwell,       .  60 

Leisure  Moments  Improved,     ,       ...  75 

Life  of  Punchinello, 76 

LIBRA  RJ  FOR  MY  TOUNG  COUNTRYMEN. 

Adventures  of  Capt.  John  Smith.  By  the  Au- 
thor of  Uncle  Philip,         ....  88 
Adventures  of  Daniel  Boone.     By  do.     .       .  88 
Duwnings  of  Genius.    By  Anne  Pratt,    .        .  88 
Life  una  Adventures  of  Henry  Hudson.     By 

the  Author  of  Uncle  Philip,      ...  88 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Heman  Cortez,  By  do.  38 
Philip  Randolph.    A  Tale  of  Virginia.    By 

Alary  Gertrude, 38 

Rowan's  History  of  the  French  Revolution.  S 

vols 75 

Sonthey's  Life  of  Oliver  Cromwell,        .       .  38 


Lniila'  School-Diivs.  By  E.  J.  Maj-, . 

Louiie  ;  or.  The  lleauty  of  Integrity,       . 

MarvHtt's  Settlers  in  (fannda,  .        ,        . 
"         Mastermnn  Ready,   , 
"         Scenes  In  Africa,        .        ,        . 

Midauniiiier  I'nya.  By  Siitan  Pindar, 

MISS  Mcintosh's  works. 

Aunt  Kitty's  Tnlea,  Umo. 
Blind  Alice  i  A  Tiilo  for  Good  Children.  , 
KUen  Lealio  ;  or.  The  Reward  of  Self-Control 
Florence  Amott;  or.  Is  She  Generonal 
Grace  and  Ciurn  ;  or,  Ue  Jiiat  aa  well  aa  Gen 

eroua, 

Jeaaie  Graham ;  or,  Frlenila  Dear,  but  Truth 

Dearer, 

Emily  Herbert  j  or.  The  Huppy  Home,   . 
Ruse  and  Lilliu  Stanhope,         . 


71 

3S 
62 
68 
68 
68 


78 

as 

3» 

88 

38 
37 
37 

15 
87 
96 


Mamma's  Story  Book,      .... 

Pebbles  from  tne  Sea-Shore,    . 

Puss  In  Boota.  Illuatrated.  By  Otto  Specter, 

PETER  parley's  WORKS. 

Faggots  for  the  Fireaide, 1  13 

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TALES   FOR  THE  PEOPLE  AND  THSIB 

CHILDREN. 

Alice  Franklin.   By  Mary  Howitt,  .       . 
Crofton  Boya  (The).   By  Harriet  Martineau, 
Dangers  of^  Dining  Out.  By  Mrs.  Ellia,  . 
Domeatic  Talea.    By  Hannah  More.  3  vols. 
B^rly  Friendahip.    By  Mra.  Copley,       . 
Farmer'a  Daughter  (The).   By  Mra.  Cameron 
Firat  Impreaaiona.   By  Mrs.  Gllia,   .       . 
Hope  On,  Hope  Ever  I  By  Mary  Howitt, 
Little  Coin.  Much  Care.    By  do.      .       . 
Lookmg-Glaaa  for  the  Mind,    ftlany  plates. 
Love  and  Money.    By  Mary  Howitt,      , 
Minister's  Family.    Bv  Mra.  Ellia,  .       , 
My  Own  Story.    By  Mary  Howitt.  .       . 
My  Uncle,  the  Clockmaker.  By  do.       • 
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Sowing  and  Reaping.   By  Mary  Howitt, 

Story  of  a  Geiiiua 

Strive  and  Thrive.   By  do.      ,       ,       , 
The  Two  Apprenticea.  By  do.        .       . 
Tired  of  Housekeeping.    By  T.  S.  Arthur, 
Twin  Sistera  (The).    By  Mra.  Sandliam, 
Which  is  the  Wiser!  By  Mary  Howitt, 
Who  Shall  be  Greatest  f  By  do.     . 
Work  and  Wages.  By  do.      .       . 


88 
88 
38 
75 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
38 
38 
88 
88 
38 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 
88 


BBOOND  SEBIXS. 

Chances  and  Changes.   By  Charles  Bnrdett, 
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Never  Too  Late.    By  Charlea  Burdett,  . 
Ocean  Work,  Ancient  and  Modem.  By  J.  H, 
Wright, 


Picture  Pleaaure  Book,  lat  Seriea,  .       . 

"  "         "       2d  Seriea,  . 

Robinaon  Crusoe.  800  Plates,  .  .  . 
Susun  Puidar's  Story  Book,  .  .  , 
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Wonderful  Story  Boot,    .... 

Willy's  First  Present, 

Week's  Delight ;  or.  Games  and  Stories  for  the 

Parlon 

William  Tell,  the  Hero  of  Switzerland, . 
Young  Student.    By  Madame  Guiiot,      . 


88 
88 
88 


1  35 
1  36 
1  60 
76 
76 
87 
60 

n 

78 
60 
71 


rk- 

.M«y,.        . 

71 

ntugrity,      . 

3S 

I,  ■ 

63 

1  •       •       • 

68 

68 

rindnr, 

68 

I'S   WORKS. 

d  Children.  , 
nl  of  S«lf-6>ntrol, 
)  U«n«rnii(t 
it  At  wbll  «•  Gen 

I  Dear,  but  Truth 

... 
ppy  f  loni*,  . 


Uy  Otto  SptoUr, 

t's  works. 

•  •  • 

lont,      .       . 


1,  . 
Kloweri, 


75 

3« 

88 

88 
37 
87 

75 
87 
96 


1  18 
1  00 
1  13 
SOO 


:OPLE  AND  TUEIB 

REN. 


[owitt,  .       .       , 
rriet  MartineM,  , 

S8 

88 

Mrt.  Ellii,  . 

38 

h  More,  a  roll.  . 

75 

Copley,       .       . 
B^  Mri,  Cameron, 

88 

88 

88 

Mary  Howitt,      . 

88 

do.       •       •       ■ 

88 

.    Many  platea,   < 

88 

f  Howitt,      . 

88 

■  EUia,  .       .       . 

88 

[owitL  .        .        . 
By  do. 

88 

88 

me.   Bvdo.         . 
y  H.  Afartineau,  . 

88 

98 

pley,     . 

88 

lllis,      .       .       . 

88 

ary  Howitt,         , 

88 

88 

•       •       •       1 

88 

lo.        .       •        • 

88 

r  T.  S.  Arthur,    . 

88 

'1.  Sandlmm,       < 

88 

ary  Howitt,         . 
r  io.     , 

88 
88 

•       •       • 

88 

EBIX8. 

Charles  Burdett, 

,       88 

[.  Zschokke, 

,       88 

ei  Rurdett,  . 

.       88 

lodem.  By  J.  H, 

•       •       • 

88 

teries,  .        . 

,    1  95 

jeriei,  . 

.    1  95 

1,  . 

.    1  60 

•                •                • 

.       75 

76 

.       87 

.       60 

15 

and  Stories  for  th 

•       .       . 

75 

iwitzerland, . 

50 

le  Quiiot,     . 

71 

D.  Appleton  k  Conpany'g  List  of  New  Worki. 


Misoellaneoua  and  General  Litera- 
ture. 

An  Atlio  Pliiloinphcr  in  r»riii,         . 
Apjiii't'ini'  l.ibrBry  Miinuul,      .        ,        . 
Ak>i"II'>  lioolc  •'(  Che**,    .... 
Ariiolil'i  MiicolJiiiiKdiii' Worki,        , 
Arthur.   Thi>  Siu-cHMfiil  M«rchai>(,  . 

A  lliicik  for  Siimmi'r  Time  in  the  Cnimtry, 
Hiililwin'i  Kliiah  Timei  in  AlabHma, 
CiilhnuM  (.1.  C),  Worki  of.  4  vols,  publ.,  each 
Clark'i  ( W.  O.)  Knick  Kn«ck», 
Cornwall't  Miitir  a*  it  Wna,  and  ai  it  Ii, 
Riiaya  from  the  London  Time*,  lit  A  jd  Seriei, 
eai'll, 


r.wbiinkfi'  World  In  a  Workihop, 
El  III'  Women  of  KiiKlnml, 


tiearti  and  Hnnici, , 
"     I'rfvfntiun  Better  than  Cure,       . 
Fniter'i  Kunvi  nn  Chriitinn  Miirnli,        , 
nohUiiiitli'i  Vicnr  of  Wakefield,      . 
(irnnt'i  Memnirt  of  an  Amerli-nn  I.july,   . 
(}iii«ti«)  and  Uravitiei.    By  Kornce  .Smith, 
Ouiint'i  History  of  Civiliuitinn, 
ILarth-Slone.   By  Rev.  .S.  Otgood, . 
Hubton.    My  Uncle  and  I,        .        ,        , 

ln((oldibv  Lcffendi, 

[iham'i  Mud  Cabin,  .... 
■lohnion'i  Mrflninit  of  Wnrdi,  .  ,  . 
KavnnnKh'*  Women  of  Christianit}-,  , 
I.fi;er'i  Animal  .Miiiriii'tliim, 
I.il'u'i  Diiripline.  A  lute  of  lIunKnrv,  . 
I-etter«  from  Home.  A.  D.  131, 

MnrKitret  Maitland, 

Muiden  and  Marrii^d  Life  of  Mary  Vowel), 
Morton    Montngiiu ;    or   a   Young  C'hriitian'i 

Choipn 

Mnonulay'i  Miacellnnics.  R  vols. 

Maxinii  of  Wiiahiiiirtoii,    By  ,1,  K.  Schrneder, 

Mile  Stonoi  in  uur  Life  Journey,       .       .       . 


MINIATURE  CLASSICAL  LIBRARY. 

Poetic  Laonn;  or,  Aphnrigns  IVim  tho  Poetl, 
Bond's  (ilolden  AInxiiiiii,    , 
Clarke's  Scripture  Prnniisi's.    roiiii.lrti 
ElizHl)eth;  or,  Tho  Kxil^s  ol  Pilicriii, 
Gohlsmith's  Vicar  of  WiiUifielii,     . 
"  Essnys,  .... 

Gems  from  Amorian  Pints,   . 
Ilnnnah  More's  Privntu  Dt'vcitit  iis, 

"  "        Pnictiial  riilN,    •: 

Ilfmnns'  Domestic  AiTertiona,  . 
HoffniRii's  Ijiys  of  the  HiwIb  in,  &<•.        , 
.lohnaon'a  Hismry  of  Russeliis,  .        ■ 

Mnnmtl  of  Matrimony,     .... 
Moore's  Lnlhi  Roi.kli,       .... 

"        Melodies.    ComphUe,  .        , 

Paul  and  Virginia, 

Pollcik's  Course  of  Time,  ,        . 

Pure  Gold  from  the  Hivcrs  cf  Wisdom, 

Thomson's  Seasons, 

Token  of  the  Heart.  Do.  of  Affect  i"n.  Do 
of  ReniimbriuiCM,  r)i,  ol  Kriendship^ 
Do.  of  I/ive.  Kach,  . 
Useful  Letter-Writer, 
Wilson's  Sacra  Privata,  . 
Yuuni^s  Nigbt  Thouglita, 


26 
1  '.'5 
1  ii 
9  10 

75 

60 
1  95 
9  00 
1  96 

63 

50 

76 

60 

1  60 

75 

60 

76 

76 

60 

1  00 

1  00 


vols. 


Dis 


Little  Pedlingtnn  and  the  Pedlingtoniana, 
Prismatica.     Tales  and  Poems, 
Papera  from  the  Quarterly  Review, 
Repi.blic  of  the  iffiited  .'^liitea.  Its  Duties,  Ac, 
Preservation  of  Ileulih  iiiid  Prevention  of 

ease,   

School  for  Politics.    By  Chns.  Cnyerre, . 
Select  Itali>in  Conu'dieB.     Trunaluted,     . 
Shakespeare's  Scholiir.     liy  R.  (J.  White, 
Spectator  (The).     New  rii'.  fi  vols,  chth, 
Swett'i  1'reatise  on  Uia  -iia'S  of  the  Chest, 
Stories  from  BlackwiHxl,  .... 


76 
60 

1  00 

\  00 
75 

1  00 
63 

1  90 
75 
50 

75 
6  CO 
1  00 
I  00 


88 
81 
38 
81 
38 
38 
38 
31 
75 
31 
88 
S8 
31 
38 
38 
31 
88 
38 
88 


31 

38 
31 
88 

60 
95 
60 
00 


1 


76 

76 

76 

9  50 

9  00 

3  00 

60 


THACKERAY  ft  WORKS. 

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Mr.  Browne's  I.ettera,  .... 
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Jeamea'  Diarv.  A  I.e|rrnd  of  the  Rhine, 
The  Luck  of  Itarry  Lyndon, 

Men'a  Wivi'a, 

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50 
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1   00 

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Oresley  on  Preaotiini;, 

Griffln'!  Gnipel  it*  Own  Advocate,  .       . 
Hecker'i  Boole  of  tlie  Soul,      .... 
Hoolier'i  Complete  Worka.  3  Tola. 

James'  Haupiness, 

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Jai'vis'  Reply  to  Milner, 

KiiiBsley'g  Sacred  Choir,         .        .        .        • 

Keblu's  Cliristiun  Year, 

Ijiyiimn'i  Letters  to  a  Bunom         .        .        . 
Lof^n'a  Sermon*  and  Ezpositorj  Lectorei,      . 
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"        ^■■*y  o»  Christian  Doctrine, . 

Ogilby  on  Lay  Uapti*m, 

Pearson  on  the  Creed,       .       •       .        .       • 
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Southard'*  Myiterv  oi  Oodlineaa,     •       . 
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Spencer'*  Christian  Instructed, 
Sherlock's  Practical  Chrisliail, 
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Swnrtz's  Letters  to  my  Godchild,    ... 
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"       Notes  on  the  Miracles.       ,        .       . 
Taylor's  Holy  Livuig  and  Dying,    . 

"      Episcopacy  Asserted  and  Maintained, 
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"  Northern  and  Eastern  Guide,        . 

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4  00 

35 

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15 

15 

81 

35 

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60 

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D.  APPLETON  &  CO:a  PUBLIOATIONB. 
R«T.  Samuel  Osgood's  Two  Popular  Books. 


I. 


Mile  Stones  in  our  Life  Journey. 


SEOOND  EDITION. 


One  Yolame,  12mo.    Gloth.    Price  f  1. 


(y 


Opinioni  of  the  Preas. 

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clearer  or  more  practical  view  of  the  privileges  enjoyed  by,  and  the  datios  enjoined,  upon 
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"  Almost  every  page  has  a  tincture  of  elegant  scholarship,  and  bears  witness  to  an  ox* 
fensive  reading  of  good  authors."— JJryanfc 


■    ■-    ■■      If.-    ^ ■■         ^ 

The  Hearth-Stone ; 

THOUGHTS  UPON  HOME  LIFE  IN  OUR  CITIES. 
BY  SAMUEL  OSGOOD, 

▲VmOR  of  "  STUDIES  IN  CHRISTIAN  BIOQRAPHT,"  "  OOD  WITH  MEN,"  BTa 

FOURTH   EDITION. 
'       One  Volume,  12mo.    Cloth.    Price  $1. 


Criticiama  of  the  Press. 

"  This  is  a  volume  of  elegant  and  impressive  essays  on  the  domestic  relations  and  reli- 
gious duties  of  the  household.  Mr.  Osgood  writes  on  these  interesting  themes  In  the  most 
charming  and  animated  style,  winning  the  reader's  judgment  rather  than  coercing  It  to  the 
nuthor's  conclusions.  The  predominant  sentiments  in  the  book  are  purity,  sinceritv,  and 
love.  A  more  delightful  volume  has  rarely  been  published,  and  we  trust  it  will  have  i 
wit.o  circulation,  for  its  influence  must  be  salutary  upon  both  old  and  young." — Oommer' 
rill'  Advertiser, 

The 'Hearth-Stone'  is  the  symbol  of  all  those  delightful  truths  which  Mr.  Hsgrood  herb 
..;  iiiKcts  with  it.  In  a  free  and  graceful  style,  varying  from  deep  Bolemnitj  to  the  moat 
genial  and  lively  tone,  as  befits  his  range  of  subjects,  he  gives  attention  to  wise  tlioughta 
on  holy  things,  and  homely  truths.  His  volume  will  find  many  warm  hearts  to  which  It 
vlll  address  lt5elf."~f,'Arf*Wa»»  B.raminer. 


"  A  GBEAT,  A  OLOSIinrB  BOOK."-<toiir.  ft  Enq. 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  346  &  348  BROADWAY, 


HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 


THE  YIRGINIA  COMEDIANS; 


OR, 


#nr  iags  in  t|f  dtt  iomiraim. 


II  ' 


FROUTHE  M6S.  OV 

C.  EFFINGHAM,  Esq. 

Two  vols.  12mo.  paper,  $1 ;  oloth,  $1  50. 
A  volume  wMoli  has  been  pronoonoed  the  best  novel  of  tlie  day. 

Peruse  the  cAticisms  of  the  following  paper*^ 

"It  Is  not  only  unlike  the  monstrons  mass  of  efforts  whJoh  nave  preceded  it— and 
therefore,  attractive  in  the  light  of  comparison,  and  for  its  perfect  newness— but  it  is 
fi^ighted  with  such  an  ardor  of  style,  fervor  of  imagination,  beauty  of  description,  both 
as  regards  characters  and  scenes,  and  a  plenitude  of  genial  spirit,  that  Its  reader  is  sore 
to  be  its  lover. 

"  The  story,  which  commences  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  is  located  In 

Virginia,  its  personm  in  dramatis  being  composed  of  many  choice  spirits  who  figured, 

or  were  supposed  to  figure,  at  that  period.    We  have  not  seen  its  equal  for  many  a  day, 

and  heartily  apply  to  it  the  old  verse, 

'  May  this  book  continue  in  motion. 

And  its  leaves  every  day  be  unftirled.' " 

Bt^fftilo  Courier, 

"  The  period  of  the  story  is  about  thu  middle  of  the  last  century ;  the  place  Williams- 
burg, Yirglnia,  and  its  vicinity;  the  characters  Yiiginia  gentlemen  of  that  day  and 
generation,  among  whom  comes  Beatric*i  JTaUam,  the  leading  actress  of  a  company  of 
comedians  of  that  ilk,  and  one  of  the  most  striking,  truthfal,  and  lovable  characters  in 
modem  fiction.  The  Interest  of  the  book  never  fiags.  The  characters  are  such  that  we 
cannot  be  indifferent  to  them,  and  the  author  absorbs  us  In  their  actions  and  their  fate." 
—Courier  d>  Enquirer. 

**  The  tone  of  the  book  Is  Intensely  national.  It  has  come  on  us  completely  by  sur 
prise,  for  we  had  no  conception  of  its  character,  until  we  were  half  through  the  first 
volume,  and  we  must  confess  that  we  were  at  the  outset  extremely  unprepared  Ibt 
■aeh  •  display  of  literary  power.^'— ^.  Y.  Expreat, 


r^ 


17S 


r-' 


7  5 


5 


4C 


'.  *  Enq. 


ROADWAY, 


^DIANS; 


ini0it. 


nel  of  tlie  day. 

nave  preceded  it— and 
ict  newness— bat  It  is 
ity  of  description,  both 
that  Its  reader  is  sore 

century,  is  located  in 
ce  spirits  who  figured, 
equal  for  many  a  day, 


Buffalo  Courier. 
7\  the  place  Williams- 
men  of  that  day  and 
stress  of  a  company  of 
lovable  characters  in 
cters  are  such  tliat  we 
«tions  and  their  fiite." 

is  completely  by  sur 
half  through  the  flrsl 
imely  unprepared  for 


